"Yes, at times," he looked away.

"I want nothing to do with that life," she looked at the book, like it was something dug up from wet earth, "or that book. What do you want me to do?"

"I don't want you to do anything. Your mother begged me, on her death bed, to give you this book," Tim's eyes burned. "She was no devil. She was never cruel to you, and Bethany," he closed his eyes, "helped me when Eve and…"

"Tim, I've spent all my time searching for the truth, and there is nothing," she glanced at the book, which pulled at her. "I studied and became an Investigative Journalist, so I could escape. That book has nothing in it."

"Your mother was a good woman," he took her hand, "and so are you. You are you and your mother is your mother, but I never expect you to be her. Trust me; there is no one else like you."

"Careful, you charmer," she smiled.

The waitress chose that moment to return with their food. They ordered sodas, as the woman winged at Marie. Though he pretended his food was interesting, he saw how she devoured the meal. Tim feigned being full, and gave her the rest. When Lucy returned with dessert, he let her have it too."

"Your mother was a great woman. You just got to take the book," he rested his hands on it. Tim had never dared open the tome, "It is yours. Put it in the closet or a safe, but it belongs only to you. Your family's past doesn't have to define you. It is there, just work hard, and everything will be fine. Your family history has to be accepted, leave what doesn't improve you."

"Thanks for the philosophy," chuckled Marie. "So, how did your years of hard work pay off? It did little for me. I guess I should have known something was up, when my boss asked if I had a boyfriend in my interview."

"Oh, Inky," he blinked.

"No worries, the coward black balled me," she smiled though crossed her arms, "told his buddies I was hard to work with."

"I…don't know what to say."

"I guess not every man has your chivalrous nature."

"Well, the house, property, and book are yours," he put money with a nice tip on the bill absently. Lucy took the money to scurry away from Marie. He pushed the tome forward, "you can apply for more jobs, and think about a path forward."

Marie swallowed, laid a hand on it, but felt her heart race. "I guess I could go back," she smiled, shrugged, "probably better than sleeping in my car."

"We could catch up on old times," he pulled his gaze from her eyes, which bewitched him with their beauty. "I'm sure you'll bounce back. You're the only one I'll always bet on."

"I was curious what happened to my old stomping grounds," she took her hand off the book. "Thought it would rot to the ground, or the earth would open up to swallow it."

"So, you're ready. Do you want more dessert?"

"No, if I don't hex someone fast, our audience will be disappointed," she got up, but left the book. Tim followed though picked up the tome.

Marie sighed, once out the door. Smothering weight of the eyes had lifted from her back. "Could you do a girl a favor?" she asked with a smile.

"Give you a ride to your family house," he returned the grin with a chuckle.

"You're my knight in rumpled flannel," she took a step, but paused, "hey, could you, in the morning—"

"Come back in the morning, with a tank of gas?" he shook his head, but his laugh rumbled out.

Tim opened the door for her, but kept the book away. The truck was old though well-kept. Sweetness of strawberries spilled out from the air freshener. Below the sugary scent, Marie caught the spice of his scent. Its engine boomed to life to only settle into a resonate growl. Tome tucked behind the seat, both recalled the days of their youth. They pulled out of the parking lot into the feverish warmth of the night.

Like most towns in the deepest parts of Appalachia, the rise and falls turned and twisted. Occasional rain of the past couple of weeks made the patches of fog thick. The town of Hemlock Hurst had been consolidated from smaller communities. Between the waves of mist, they came to the town's highest point. The trees debouched where homes clung to the mountains and hillocks.

All along the edge of Swannanoa was a tall wall of stone. Built by slaves, it stretched around the flattest stretch of Hemlock Hurst. Old plantation houses were testaments to antebellum aristocracy. Each was imprisoned within walls which defied time, built to last. Vast fields that gathered about each of the properties were kept cut. Ground fog hung above damp earth like the hair of a dying man. Rows of red roses left a subtle fragrance, which had bloomed for generations. Even before there was a post office, Swannanoa perched at the top. Thick clouds barred the moon light, though bursts of heat lightning lit up the firmament like veins of flames.

Past Swannanoa, down the mountain, they pasted Duncannon. Bathed in the gaudy electric light, the street lights were a facsimile of one found in Swannanoa. Where the rich, old families above were rooted in European nobility, the families of this community were merchants or business leaders. No matter their personal fortunes, none were allowed in the top of Hemlock Hurst. Houses ranged from extravagant, modern palatial estates to recreations of plantation houses. The grounds were well-kept, though lacked the craftsmanship of the old families properties. Gaudy glamour reminded Marie of the city, and the urban fascination with imitation of sophistication.

She shook her head, for the new rich had settled on a much shorter wall. "I see the old families kept the new money out too," Marie smiled.