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Night Songs

By Jennifer Sienes

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Chapter 1

Charlie
The drama in my life could be captured in the lyrics of a country-western song—the only thing missing was a dog. If Nick wasn’t all hat and no cattle, he could make it into a chart hit. After all my support and encouragement, the downfall of our marriage could be the catalyst his music career needed. Wouldn’t that just be the icing on a cow pie?
Everything I’d put my faith in had dissipated like summer fog in a holler. It left me standing in front of Nana and Pawpaw’s house with despair deep in my soul, much like I’d done twenty years ago. Except I was no longer a twelve-year-old girl, Nana and Pawpaw were gone, and the house would be more at home in a Flannery O’Connor story than on a quiet road just outside Shelbyville, Tennessee.
Nashville might only have been an hour’s drive away, but the gap between success and failure couldn’t be so easily traversed.
Climbing from my car, I tugged at the sweaty tank top stuck to my back and stared at the dilapidated house that sat in the middle of five acres. The sun was just starting to set, and its glow was a kindness. Nana always said ladies look much better in candlelight—and this old lady was no exception. The once-white exterior had blistered and peeled to expose gray weathered wood beneath. Termites must have feasted for years on the small balcony above the door, and it was now held together by spit and a prayer. The tall, narrow windows, upstairs and down, peered at me with suspicion, and goosebumps skittered up my arms.
Pawpaw would’ve said a goose just walked on my grave.
Well, what had I expected? That the only thing left in my name, other than a car payment and a useless wardrobe, would prove to be a blessing instead of a curse?
Fingering away a trickle of sweat from my temple, I moved up the pathway, my sandals crunching in the weed-infested gravel. A low growl halted my progress, and I squinted in the waning light toward the wrap-around porch. Was that a dog hunched beneath the cock-eyed swing? I looked up toward heaven as if God was actually watching. “You’ve got a sense of humor, I’ll say that much for You.” Was it a stray, or did it belong to a neighbor? Either way, it didn’t make much difference. I didn’t do dogs. Especially the big, ill-tempered variety. Wouldn’t it be just peachy if I was mauled by a rabid animal?
With a sudden whimper, the surly canine ambled down the wide steps, his bushy black tail swinging like the pendulum in a Grandfather clock. Wagging was a good thing, right? I mean, a dog didn’t generally wag its tail if it had nefarious intentions, did it? Still, when it plopped on its hindquarters in front of me and gave me a pitiful gaze, I wasn’t moved.
“Go home.” I waved a hand in the general direction of anywhere but here, hoping he knew where home was. “Go on, now.” As if it could be that easy.
Ignore him. The more attention he got, the longer he’d hang about. I continued down the path, patchy grass tickling my bare ankles, and pulled the key from the front pocket of my jean shorts. My heart about thumped out of my chest when something thicker than cudweed brushed my bare leg, and I jumped aside to find the dog only inches from me. Well, heck. He’d get the message sooner or later—or die from starvation and thirst. Despite myself, I sighed. Even in my pathetic state, I wasn’t cold-hearted enough to let that happen.
“Let’s see if we can find you some water.” We moved up the steps in tandem as if we’d been doing it forever. I laid a hand against the royal-blue double doors, faded with time and years of early morning sun. Nana believed the superstition that the color blue kept haints away. She didn’t hold with Mama and Daddy’s theory that all she needed was Jesus. Of course, the fact they both died young didn’t give much credence to their beliefs.
A mourning dove lamented from high in the cottonwood that loomed over the house as I took a deep breath and unlocked the door. It seemed every step I took of late led me into deeper despair. Would Nana’s house be an exception?
The dog pushed his way in ahead of me. The house had been vacant since Nana died, but I didn’t have the time or inclination to check it. I knew there was work needing to be done, which is the reason I gave Nicky for not selling it, as he’d wanted to do. I’d hired some teen boys to store the furniture in the basement, too heartbroken to face the chore myself.
Dog and I moved through the foyer where the hardwood floors were covered in dust and scratches, and interestingly, the impression of shoe tread. A flashback of Goldie Locks and the Three Bears flitted through my memory. Who’s been walking through my house, said Mama bear. Surely, this couldn’t have been left over from two years ago. The windows I’d seen as yet were whole, but maybe the back door had been left open and curiosity got the better of a neighbor. Might be best to keep Dog close by until morning.
I bypassed the wide staircase and made a slow trek through the family room. Someone had stripped paint from around the window trim and left their chemicals behind. A can of Jasco sat on the floor along with a pile of rags and paint spatulas. Honey-gold tones shone through the bare wood like the glimmer of hope.
Dog sat at my side and peered up at me. I couldn’t help but pat him on the head. Although a puff of dust rose from his fur, he was soft and warm to the touch. “You’re more loyal than my husband, and that’s a fact,” I said. “Let’s see what we can find in the kitchen.”
# # #
Derek
If the dull throb of my low back wasn’t enough to keep me awake, the quintessential question of my life’s purpose was. I dragged my body from bed and stumbled through the dark room to snag the rolled-up mat behind the door. Wouldn’t my Special Forces comrades get a kick in the ribs to see I’ve resorted to yoga? They could laugh all they wanted, but better to perfect the child’s pose than let some surgeon do a hatchet job on my back.
At first the pain intensified, as it always did—like knife blades twisting in my spine. Time to schedule another round with the decompression unit. God had a plan and purpose in this. Leastways, that’s what I kept telling myself. One helicopter accident, and everything had changed. Definitely put a hitch in my faith walk. Me and God were working it out, though.
With effort, I rose from the floor, stepped to the window, and raised it a bit more. The night air was warm and moist—summer in the South—and I drew it deep into my lungs. Cicadas were loud as rock music but with the smoothness of jazz. Being away all these years, I’d missed it. Didn’t know how much until my first night back when the sounds of wildlife washed over me.
Mama had wanted me to stay with her in the big house—said it was more comfortable. The guest house did me fine, though. My address might’ve been the same, but it wasn’t a lie to tell my buddies I wasn’t living with my mama. A man could only take so much humiliation.
If luck was with me, I could still grab a few hours of shut eye before another day was upon us. I wandered into the kitchen to down a glass of water first. A flash of light caught my attention through the window above the sink. Was it coming from the Van Cleave house? Drink forgotten, I stepped out the back door to get a clearer view. Sure enough, a light shone through a second-story window. There wasn’t anything worth stealing, but that wouldn’t stop squatters from taking advantage.
After retrieving my Glock from under the bed and my shoes from the back porch, I set out for the trail that connected Mama’s property to the Van Cleave’s. It’d been busy as a bypass once Charlie had moved in—until about ten years ago. Had it really been that long since she and Nick married? Time was a funny thing.
The scurry of nocturnal animals rattled the brush alongside the path as I made my way by moonlight. Could be raccoons, a fox, or armadillos. The only animal that concerned me was skunks. But I arrived at the back porch without mishap and found the key I’d left under a cracked terra cotta pot alongside the door. The screen creaked like an old man’s bones and gave me pause. A house this old wouldn’t make it easy to sneak around, but unless I could sprout wings and fly, there was nothing left to do.
I toed my shoes off and left them in the kitchen. Glock at the ready, I snuck through the house on bare feet like I was on a deep-cover rescue mission. The stairs were solid, and I gave myself a figurative pat on the back for my stealth. How pathetic was I? Maybe I should rethink the desk job offered to me. There were worse things.
The deep growl of a canine came from the end of the hall—Charlie’s bedroom from what I remembered. It was one thing to hold a squatter at bay with a gun, but a dog?
“What is it, boy?” The low words coming from the other side of the closed door were unexpected. Definitely a woman. Didn’t matter—a girl was just as capable of discharging a weapon as a man.
Raising the Glock, I clicked off the safety. “You’re trespassing on private property,” I called out. “Slowly open the door and come out with your hands raised.”
There was a rustling sound from within the room and then the definite snick of a lock. “I called the sheriff,” she yelled. “You better leave before they get here.”
That voice was familiar. “Charlie?” I reset the safety and let the gun drop to my side. “Is that you?”
“Who’s there?”
“Derek.” A few strides, and I was at the door just as if flew open. A ball of snarling black fur stood between me and the girl formally known as Charlotte Van Cleave. Gone was the poised and polished woman I’d last seen at her nana’s funeral. Instead, she looked like the lost waif I first laid eyes on twenty years before.
I itched to reach out and touch her to be sure she was real, but I expected her canine protector would extract a limb if I did. “What’re you doing here?”
Her eyes widened as she folded her arms, chin jutted. “What am I doing here? What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be overseas saving the world from communism, or socialism, or something?”
Stepping forward, I was stopped short by another low growl. “Nice dog you have there. Want to call him off?”
“He isn’t mine.”
I quirked an eyebrow at her.
“I swear. He was here when I showed up a couple hours ago. I don’t even like dogs.” The softening of her eyes when she patted his head told a different story.
“So, is my brother here with you?”
The scowl she threw me would’ve had more impact if it weren’t for the tear that slid down her cheek.
Why was I not surprised? Didn’t I warn her all those years ago? Hadn’t I reinforced it with every meeting since? But saying I told you so would only rile her. Practicality was the best course. “Think you should call the sheriff’s office back and let them know there isn’t a prowler?”
“I was bluffing. I left my phone downstairs.” Her face crumpled, and I took my chances with the dog to pull her in for a hug.

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