In-between Hour (9781460323731) Read online

  What could be worse than losing your child?

  Having to pretend he’s still alive...

  Bestselling author Will Shepard is caught in the twilight of grief, after his young son dies in a car accident. But when his father’s aging mind erases the memory, Will rewrites the truth. The story he spins brings unexpected relief…until he’s forced to return to rural North Carolina, trapping himself in a lie.

  Holistic veterinarian Hannah Linden is a healer who opens her heart to strays but can only watch, powerless, as her grown son struggles with inner demons. When she rents her guest cottage to Will and his dad, she finds solace in trying to mend their broken world, even while her own shatters.

  As their lives connect and collide, Will and Hannah become each other’s only hope—if they can find their way into a new story, one that begins with love.

  Praise for Barbara Claypole White’s debut novel,

  The Unfinished Garden

  “I learned so much about myself from this story—that fear doesn’t have to hold me back, but rather, it can move me forward. The Unfinished Garden is a touching and accomplished debut.”

  —Diane Chamberlain, bestselling author of The Secret Life of CeeCee Wilkes

  “White…conveys the condition of OCD, and how it creates havoc in one’s life and the lives of loved ones, with style and grace, never underplaying the seriousness of the disorder.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “A powerful story of friendship and courage in the midst of frightening circumstances….I highly recommend this wonderful love story.”

  —Bergers’ Book Reviews

  “A mesmerizing tale of fear, loss, and love. Tilly and James are richly drawn and wonderfully flawed characters who embody the contradictions and imperfections that exist in all of us. Barbara Claypole White has created a novel as beautiful and complex, dark and light, sweet and sensuous as Tilly’s beloved garden.”

  —Joanne Rendell, author of The Professors’ Wives’ Club

  “Barbara Claypole White has created such a likable, adorable, entertaining main character that I never wanted this book to end.”

  —Lydia Netzer, author of Shine Shine Shine

  “I found the writing style in The Unfinished Garden reminiscent of Rosamunde and Robin Pilcher. As a fan of both, I truly enjoyed this book and look forward to many more from Barbara Claypole White.”

  —Julie Kibler, author of Calling Me Home

  Also by Barbara Claypole White

  The Unfinished Garden

  Barbara Claypole White

  THE

  IN-BETWEEN

  HOUR

  For my sister, Susan Rose

  And for my friend Leslie Gildersleeve

  Do you know me in the gloaming,

  Gaunt and dusty gray with roaming?

  —From “Flower-Gathering” by Robert Frost

  Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much.

  —Helen Keller

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Occoneechee Mountain became a North Carolina State Natural Area in 1999. Rising above the Eno River, the summit is the highest point between the town of Hillsborough, Orange County, and the Atlantic Ocean. Rare plants growing on the mountain and the presence of the brown elfin butterfly suggest the habitat has changed little since the last Ice Age.

  The Occaneechi Band of the Saponi Nation is a small Native American community located primarily in Pleasant Grove, Alamance County. In 2002, it won state recognition as North Carolina’s eighth official Indian tribe.

  The seventeenth-century Occaneechi village in Hills­borough was excavated between 1983 and 1995. The Occaneechi Band of the Saponi Nation held its first powwow there in 1995, and John Blackfeather blessed the ground in 1997. Reconstruction of the village began shortly afterward and was completed in 2004. The village has been moved to the ancestral lands in Pleasant Grove.

  For information on the Occaneechi Homeland Preservation Project, please visit www.obsn.org.

  For information on the Occaneechi Path, also called the Indian Trading Path, please visit tradingpath.org.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt

  Reader’s Guide for the In-Between Hour

  Questions for Discussion

  Listening Guide

  A Conversation with the Author

  One

  Will imagined silence. The silence of snowfall in the forest. The silence at the top of a crag. But eighty floors below his roof garden, another siren screeched along Central Park West.

  Nausea nibbled—a hungry goldfish gumming him to death. Maybe this week’s diet of Zantac and PBR beer was to blame. Or maybe grief was a degenerative disease, destroying him from the inside out. Dissolving his organs. One. By. One.

  The screensaver on his MacBook Air, a rainbow of tentacles that had once reminded him to watch for shooting stars, mutated into a kraken: an ancient monster dragging his life beneath the waves. How long since he’d missed his deadline? His agent had been supportive, his editor generous, but patience—even for clients who churned out global bestsellers—expired.

  Another day when he’d failed to resuscitate his crap work-in-progress; another day when Agent Dodds continued to dangle from the helicopter; another day without a strategy for his hero of ten years that wasn’t a fatal “Let go, dude. Just let go.”

  The old-fashioned ring tone of his iPhone burst into the night as expected. Almost on cue. His dad’s memory might be jouncing around too much for either of them to follow, but it continued to hold both their lives hostage.

  Answer, aim for the end of the call, get there.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Fucking bastards. They’re—”

  “Fucking bastards. You told me earlier.” Fifty-seven minutes earlier.

  Finally, this vacuous loop of repetition had given them conversation, and always it started with the same two words: fucking bastards.

  “Fucking bastards won’t let me sit out and talk to the crows. Took away my bird call. Said I were disturbin’ folks.”

  “We talked about this last time you called, Dad.” Will kept his voice flat, even. Calm. Defusing ange
r was an old skill—the lone positive side effect of his batshit-insane childhood. And emotional distance? He had that honed before he’d turned eighteen. “I told you I’d look at the contract in the morning. And you promised to take a temazepam and go to bed.”

  There had to be some way to persuade the old man to meet with a psychologist, some way to unpick the damage of Jack Nicholson’s performance in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

  “Fucking bastards. Want to steal my Wild Turkey, too.”

  His dad veered off on the usual rant: trash the staff of Hawk’s Ridge Retirement Community—check; pause to exclude the new art teacher with the cute smile—check; ask Will when he last noticed a woman’s smile—check; hurl expletives at ol’ possum face, the director—check. Strange, how the old man failed to drop his g’s with the f word.

  A retired grave digger who’d dropped out of school at sixteen to work in the cotton mill—third shift—Jacob Shepard might refer to himself as dumber than a rock, but he’d read every history book in the Orange County Library before retirement. The old man was an underachiever by choice, devoting himself to the only thing that mattered: loving his Angeline.

  His dad was cussing again. One obscenity, two obscenities, three obscenities...four.

  All those years in the family shack, neither of them had sworn. Wouldn’t have dared. Four foot ten, magical and mad, Angeline Shepard had ruled the house with more mood swings than a teenage despot. There had been no room for anyone else to flex temper muscles. Raising a voice in his mother’s domain would have been akin to standing in front of the biggest fucking bonfire and pouring on enough gasoline to fuel an Airbus. Great, now he was swearing. Will never swore (batshit didn’t count). But since his dad had started calling to unleash rage ten, fifteen times a day, Will’s psyche had slipped into battle-fatigue mode.

  Will sighed. “There are rules about drinking in your room. You know that.”

  “I’m eighty years old, son. I reckon I’m old enough to partake, if I so choose.”

  “But you’re a loud drunk, Dad.”

  “So I pick my banjo—”

  “And tell people they’re dickheads.”

  “That’s why I don’t talk to no one ’cept you. Half them folks in here is dickheads, son. Half them is.”

  “And the other half?” Will didn’t mean to smile.

  “Old-timers who get to complainin’ about bladder control. At least I don’t need no adult diapers, and my health is still good, pretty good. Why you at home of an evenin’, son? You need to be out dancin’ with an angel like your mama.”

  “I write at night. You know that, Dad.”

  Darkness keeps me alive, keeps me on the edge. Keeps me sharp. There was always a moment, in the middle of the night, when the world hardly breathed. When he could write safe in the knowledge that no one would intrude, that he had nothing to fear. But New York Times bestselling author Will Shepard wasn’t writing. Wasn’t sleeping in his institutional white bedroom, either. These days he catnapped fully clothed on his leather sofa—as if he were a millionaire hobo.

  Even when he managed to close his eyes, there was no peace. His favorite dream in which he glided like an owl above the forest had contorted into a nightmare. In his subconscious state, Will didn’t drift on air currents anymore—he stumbled through the woods on Occoneechee Mountain. Searching for, but never finding, escape.

  “So when you goin’ to start livin’ that dream of yours, son? Find a woodland property with a driveway that’s impassable after a real heavy snowfall?”

  “That was a kid’s fantasy. I’m never moving back to North Carolina, you know that.”

  You know that. Why keep bashing his dad over the head with all that he’d forgotten?

  A gust of wind whipped through the chocolate mimosa in the huge glazed pot. Buffeted, the delicate leaflets held on and bounced back. You can do this, Will. You can do this.

  “The new guy, Bernie, who just moved in down the hall, his grandkids took him to that fancy diner on Main Street last Sunday. You know how long it’s been since I’ve had blueberry pancakes?”

  When did the old man start caring about pancakes?

  “You know what they give us for breakfast? Little boxes of cereal fit for kids. You know how long it’s been since I’ve eaten anywhere real nice? I want blueberry pancakes. And I want to see my grandbaby, goddamn it. When you bringin’ Freddie to visit?”

  Time slowed or maybe stopped. Will was at the end of a tunnel, his dad’s voice muffled as it said, over and over, “Willie?”

  Will’s arm shot across the wrought-iron table, smashing an empty water glass to the concrete. A spill of shards spread.

  Unwanted memories multiplied, images tumbled: Frederick and Cassandra in the car moments before it crashed; Will driving through the night to Hawk’s Ridge with news no grandfather should ever have to hear; his dad flailing and screaming before the security men pinned him down, before a nurse sedated him. And in the months that followed, a never-ending cycle of short-term memory loss and anger. The old man vented, forgot, repeated. Alcohol didn’t help.

  “Freddie with his mama this week?”

  Will ground his knuckle into his temple. “Yeah. He’s with his mama.” A half-truth that kicked him in the chest like a full lie.

  Was this his dad’s new reality—living with a mind so broken that it found fault with the breakfast menu and yet erased family trauma? Would Will have to constantly torture his dad with the news that had felled them both? Certain sentences, no matter how brief, should never be repeated. Never. If his dad could forget the crash, could he, one day, forget Freddie?

  “You tell Freddie’s mama to have him call his granddaddy.”

  “I can’t!” Will didn’t mean to yell, really, really didn’t mean to yell, but he could hear Cassandra taunting him: So, William. You’re a father. She always called him William, pronouncing it Willi-amm, treating his name the way she treated life—with a wild exaggeration that had led only to tragedy. A scene flashed—an illusion. A little boy and his mother caught between realms of life and death. Traveling from the plane of existence to a blank page of nothing. “I can’t because...they’re traveling.”

  Shallow, jagged breaths stabbed his throat. Blood thundered around his skull; a frenzy of lights exploded across his vision. Airway closing; heart fluttering; pulse yo-yoing.

  Will sucked in oxygen with a whooshing sound, then exhaled quietly. He would reduce everything to the skills that enabled him to scale a rock face with his hands and his feet and his mind. He would focus on nothing but finding balance in this moment in time, on finding a good, solid hold.

  “I...I don’t remember, Willie. I...I can’t remember stuff.”

  This, too, was part of the daily roller coaster. The realization that his grizzly bear of a dad had become a featherless fledgling fallen from the nest. Will could end the conversation right now. Make some excuse and get off the phone. But what was the chance his dad would remember any of this? Zero. Tomorrow would bring a fresh memory wipe. Tomorrow, Will’s computer screen would still swirl with patterns, not words. Tomorrow, his five-year-old son would still be dead.

  “Where, Willie? Where they travelin’?”

  Will stared up at the blinking lights of a jet floating across the black sky, carrying families toward new memories. He’d never taken Freddie on a plane, but he’d planned their first trip in his mind. Europe, they were going to Europe as soon as Freddie was old enough to appreciate the art, the architecture, the history.

  “Europe.” Will swallowed hard. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. Get some sleep and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Okay, son. Okay.”

  Will whispered, “Good night, old man.”

  But the line was dead.

  * * *

  Will scooped up his laptop and walked back into his emp
ty apartment. Out in the hallway, the elevator dinged. A couple passed his front door, stabbing each other with words. The woman would win the fight. She was the one setting the tempo, as Cassandra had done. He’d never figured out why, eighteen months after their affair fizzled, Cass contacted him to suggest he meet the son he hadn’t known existed until that very moment. As an heiress she didn’t need child support, and the ground rules were set from the beginning: Freddie’s my son; you’re not listed on the birth certificate; you see him if and when I decide.

  He should have fought for his son.

  “Munchkin, I’m sorry,” Will said.

  Sorry for not keeping you safe. Sorry for being a coward.

  His cowardice slid out as easily as the fast and furious plots that had made him a thirty-four-year-old literary powerhouse. Corporation Will Shepard careened from success to success, despite the fact that its CEO had been writing-by-numbers for years. When fans looked at him, they saw nothing but the glitter of achievement, which was the way his staff tweeted and scripted his life. Everything was about creating the cardboard cutout.

  Only fatherhood was real.

  He’d been a good dad—patient, fun, firm. Although there had been a few too many online purchases from FAO Schwarz. Not that he was trying to buy Freddie’s love. He’d just wanted Freddie to have everything Will himself had never had. But not in the material sense. A young kid should believe that he was the center of his dad’s universe. Because once you realized your happiness mattered to no one but you, life was a slalom ride through loblolly pines—until you crashed into the revelation that all your relationships were severely messed up. Except for fatherhood. From day one, he’d cleared out space physically and psychologically for his son.

  Freddie looked at Will—all five feet seven inches of him—and saw a dragon slayer! The invincible hero! A storyteller who could answer the only question that mattered: “What happened next, Daddy?”

  Will placed his laptop in the middle of his desk and stared at the drawing on the wall. Two colorful stickmen—one big, one small—were holding hands and celebrating the day they met. March 30. “Happy Our Day,” Freddie had said, jumping up and down. “Mommy helped me pick out the frame in a huge store. Huuuuuge!”