Home to Walnut Ridge by Diane Moody Read Free Book Online Page B

but couldn’t reach her.
    “ Traffic was at a
standstill,” he’d told Buddy. “I was about to crawl out of my skin,
and I remember yelling at the cab driver to turn at the next light
and take a different way. He yelled back, but I couldn’t understand
a single word . . . I remember shouting at him,
telling him if he was gonna live and work in the U.S., he should
learn the blasted language.”
    Noah looked up at Buddy. “Though in a
somewhat more colorful choice of words.”
    Buddy smiled.
    “ I finally gave up, threw
some money at him and decided to make a run for it. And that’s
when . . . that’s when . . . I saw
her . . .”
    Buddy waited several moments, then
quietly asked, “You saw her?”
    Noah shook his head. “Not her. Her
car.” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Or what was left of
it.”
    “ Oh no,” Buddy
groaned.
    Noah attempted a smile.
“She’d always loved Volkswagen Beetles. I’d given it to her two
years earlier on her birthday. It was bright red. I ordered a
vanity plate‌—‌ My Lil’ Bug. And Melissa, she always kept a bunch of daisies
in the little vase on the dash. She loved daisies. And she really
loved that car.” He swallowed hard. “So I knew immediately it was
hers. The driver’s side had been broadsided by a delivery truck
that ran a red light. The truck driver, a bicycle courier, and
Melissa were all killed.”
    Lost in the fog of those memories,
Noah startled as his ringing cell phone pulled him back to the
present. Alex’s number appeared on the phone’s small screen. Noah
almost answered, then stopped. Instead, he silenced the ring
without connecting the call. She and Buddy had invited him up to
the house for dinner as they often did. He’d actually intended to
go. But the lingering trace of melancholy drifting through him gave
him pause.
    He tapped the phone against his
forehead and closed his eyes. He couldn’t put it in words, this
sadness that sometimes washed over him. Sometimes he could almost
visualize it‌—‌like thick ribbons of fog seeping through a crack in
his armor, or drifting like a mighty wave through an open door.
Eerie, dark, snaking through him until it reached fingers around
his heart and squeezed‌—‌tighter and tighter until he could hardly
breathe. He’d learned to fight it, mentally slamming the door on
the despair before it overwhelmed him and left him drained and
despondent. Again.
    Noah opened his eyes and slowly
exhaled. He hated these moments and knew the easiest way to keep
them at bay was by doing something else, going somewhere, escaping.
It was why he loved his Harley. He raked his fingers through his
hair and got up, tossing the half-eaten apple into the trash. He
retrieved his phone and listened to Alex’s message.
    “ Hey, Noah, it’s Alex. I
wasn’t sure if you were coming up to dinner or not, but just wanted
you to know we’re having fried catfish tonight. Hope you’ll come.
We’ll eat about seven. Bye.”
    He felt a smile tugging at his face.
Buddy and Alex always seemed to be there when he needed them. Even
on voicemail. Alex knew how much he loved catfish. He sent her a
text, then hopped in the shower, hoping to wash away the dust and
filth from the smokehouse.
    And if he was lucky, maybe some of the
fog in his heart while he was at it.
     

     
    “ Noah, c’mon in!” Buddy
chimed as he walked through the back door into the kitchen. “We
were about to give up on you.”
    Tracey slid the last biscuit into the
basket and looked up as their guest arrived. His eyes met hers, but
before she could say hello, she couldn’t help noticing how handsome
he looked. He wore a blue chambray shirt beneath a navy cable knit
sweater. The blues brought out the green in his eyes. She smiled.
“Hello, Noah.”
    “ Hi, Tracey. I hope I
didn’t hold up dinner. I figured the least I could do was clean up
after crawling under the smokehouse half the day.”
    “ And you don’t clean up
half bad for a