Coaching was easier than I expected. Despite being away from the sport for a decade, the skills were second nature. Good old muscle memory kicked in. Helping the girls improve their abilities reminded me of all the different coaches who had made a difference in my life.

  “Tiffany, if you jump like that, you’re falling into your right side. Make sure you don’t float when you block. Plant that right foot and go straight up.”

  As they practiced the drill while holding on to a volleyball—moving in front of the net to jump and press the ball over the net before dropping it over to the other side—part of me wanted to join them. Just to feel a volleyball in my hands again. But I kept my feet on the ground and fisted my hands on my hips. I wasn’t a player. I was a coach—and a very temporary one, at that.

  “If you’re doing this drill correctly—penetrating the net—you’re engaging your core and squeezing your shoulders. You’ll know you did it right if your abs are sore tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for that.” Jody ran past me as she retrieved a stray ball.

  “My pleasure.”

  Just then, the lights dimmed in the gym. The universal warning sign for the end of practice.

  “All right, girls. Good job tonight. Go ahead and take down the nets.”

  I retrieved the rolling cart, depositing volleyballs in it as my contribution to cleanup. This was familiar, too. The postworkout wind-down. Girls from both teams took down the black-and-white nets, while others gathered up stray balls and disassembled the mats and poles. Sweatpants and jackets and boots covered workout gear as the noise level in the gym decreased and the girls headed for their homes—and probably a late-night snack of some sort while they did homework.

  “Thanks for helping out tonight, Payton.” Sydney and I stood just inside the doorway, car lights sweeping across the parking lot.

  “It was . . . fun.”

  “More fun than you expected?” Sydney slipped into her coat, pulling her long hair out so that it fell across her shoulders.

  “To be honest, yes.”

  “Would you consider coming back?”

  “Maybe.” I pulled on my lightweight gloves. “I’d have to think about it. See what my work schedule is like.”

  “Just know you’re welcome anytime. You did a great job with those girls. You’re a natural.”

  “I was afraid I’d forgotten everything I ever knew—”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  I shoved open the door, the cool air hitting me in the face like a jolt of reality. “I should let you get home to your family.”

  “You’ve got my number,” Sydney called after me. “Call before you come—or just show up.”

  She was assuming I’d come back.

  Maybe I would. I hadn’t realized how much I missed the sport. All of it. Entering a gym full of teen girls walking, talking, playing volleyball. Their backpacks stitched with the Club Brio logo, their water bottles tossed alongside. The easy camaraderie. Jokes. Laughter. Pats on the back. Competition as the teams divided and lined up on either side of the net, girls rotating from back row to front row. Even the parents sitting on the metal bleachers, cheering their daughters on when they made a good serve or block.

  So familiar. I almost heard the echo of Pepper’s voice follow me to my car. “Great practice tonight, Pay! I can’t wait for the tournament this weekend.”

  With a shake of my head, I dispelled the thoughts. What had I been thinking? I had no right to visit Sydney’s club tonight. To help out. To have so much fun with those three girls as I ran them through the drills.

  No right to want to go back.

  “You have fun tonight?”

  Pepper—asking the very question I dreaded. But where was she? I couldn’t see her in the all-encompassing blackness, so I stood still.

  “Did you?”

  “Are we having this conversation in the dark?”

  The lights came up and there she was, facing away from me, at the back of a court, next to a cart filled with white-and-blue volleyballs. She could have been a Club Brio member in her white T-shirt and navy-blue spandex, her hair in its familiar long braid. She picked up a ball, balanced it on her palm, turning it around in her hands. Raised it up and then, in one fluid movement, jumped and served it over the net.

  “Yes. I had a good time.”

  Pepper ignored my answer. Picked up another ball. Took her time and launched another serve. “I always knew you’d be a good coach.”

  “I’m not a coach.” I retrieved a ball, lining up on the other side of the cart. I used to have a killer serve—even better than Pepper’s.

  “You wanted to be. What happened?”

  Pepper was asking me that?

  My palm slammed against the ball so that it skimmed across the top of the net and banged into the opposite wall.

  “Too hard, Pay. That would have been out.”

  My second serve hit the wall again.

  “Why aren’t you coaching?”

  “I quit volleyball after . . . after you died.”

  “Why?”

  My serve went wide.

  “Pepper, you know why.” My voice broke. “You’re dead because of me.”

  “That’s not true—”

  “Yes, it is. I was the one who was supposed to race that night—not you.”

  “It was my choice, Payton.”

  “It’s my fault.”

  “So I died . . . and you stopped living, too?”

  I picked up another volleyball, ready to send it across the net.

  “That’s crazy thinking. You might as well have been on the snowmobile with me.”

  “I wish I had been.”

  “Don’t say that. That’s not how it works.”

  “Don’t tell me how things work!” I dropped the volleyball, and it bounced a few feet away. “Nothing’s worked since you died, Pepper. I don’t know how to do me without you. . . . Don’t you get it?”

  “You start by telling the truth.”

  “What?”

  “Tell the truth.”

  The lights went out in the gym.

  I jolted awake. My laptop lay at my feet on the couch. So much for my plan to stay awake.

  “Tell the truth.” After ten years of hiding everything from my parents, how was I supposed to tell them what had happened the night Pepper died? For all these years, it seemed easier to bear the weight of the secret myself. No matter how much I wanted to confess how I had caused Pepper’s death, I couldn’t figure out how to start the conversation. How to revisit that night.

  But I wasn’t the only one who knew what had happened. The reality was like a slow-burning fuse in the back of my mind. Zach Gaines knew what I’d done. Maybe not the entire story—all the whys and hows—but he knew Pepper had pretended to be me. He’d thought I was the one injured in the crash . . . until I’d come running across the field, fallen to my knees, and screamed my sister’s name.

  20

  ZACH LEANED BACK in his chair, studying the 3-D rendering of the built-in bookshelves surrounding a fireplace in a family room. Did he continue working with the existing fireplace or suggest a new design to complement the overall flow of the shelves? It was the first week of October—how much did he want to mess with the project timeline?

  The light on the phone on his desk lit up, indicating an incoming call. Decision postponed for the moment.

  “3:17 Cabinets, this is Zach Gaines.”

  “That was very professional, Mr. Gaines.”

  “Payton?” Zach straightened, righting his chair.

  A brief muffled laugh came through the phone. “I’m sorry. I just haven’t ever heard you sound so businesslike before.”

  “Well, thank you, I guess.” Zach opted to keep this lighthearted tone going. This was a new version of Payton. “What can I help you with, Miss Thatcher? Were you so impressed with my skills that you decided to redo your kitchen?”

  Even as he waited for her answer, he glimpsed the edge of his tattoo beneath his shirtsleeve and breathed a silent prayer. Payton might sound cheerful, but they were the merest of friends. Who knew why she was calling?

  “I kept thinking about your offer when I was at your cabin—” Payton’s words were rushed—“to go see the bench you made for Pepper . . .”

  He couldn’t have been more surprised if she had asked him to build her cabinets. “Yes?”

  “And I’d like to come see it . . . please.”

  Silence. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes. I’m just surprised.”

  “I can understand that, considering how less than two weeks ago I refused when you asked if I wanted to see the bench.” Payton paused. “But now . . .”

  “I’d love for you to see the bench. When were you thinking of coming up?”

  “Would tomorrow work for you?”

  “Tomorrow?” She kept surprising him. “Saturday?”

  “Yes. Is that too soon? You’re probably busy—”

  “No. I’m not busy.” And even if he was, he’d cancel anything he was doing. “Tomorrow is fine.”

  Their conversation was as awkward as if this were their first dance together. They kept trying to avoid tripping over one another’s virtual toes, not sure who was leading and who was following.

  Was there something else Payton wanted to talk about?

  The question rose in his mind. Hovered. But Zach pressed his lips together and waited. All she’d asked to do was to see the bench. Nothing more. He wouldn’t presume. Wouldn’t pressure her.

  “Why don’t you come up midmorning?”

  “That’s fine. And then you don’t have to worry about feeding me breakfast.”

  “I should warn you that I still don’t have any tofu in the house if you get hungry.”

  “Do you want me to pick up any on my way?”

  “Don’t bother. Really.”

  With a laugh, they hung up. Tapping his fingers on the desk beside his keyboard, Zach stared at the computer screen but saw Payton Thatcher’s face.

  What was that about?

  For requesting something so serious, Payton had been almost too upbeat. When he’d asked her to go see the bench the first time, she’d flinched.

  “I can’t . . . I really think I should just leave—”

  He swiped his hand across his face and eased out of his chair, heading toward his friend’s office. Maybe Colin could help him figure this out, as he’d done so many other things.

  With a sharp rap, Zach half opened the door. “Hey, do you have a minute?”

  Colin pushed back from his desk, a welcoming smile on his face. “Absolutely. Come on in.”

  “Thanks.” Zach couldn’t help but take a moment to admire the view of the aspens turning color outside the office, backed up by snowcapped mountain peaks.

  “Is this about work?” Colin twirled a pen between his fingers like a mini baton.

  “No.” Zach forced his attention back to his waiting coworker. “It’s about Payton Thatcher.”

  “Oh?”

  Zach had to give Colin credit for his understated reaction, but it wasn’t as if they hadn’t talked about her. “She just called and asked to see the bench I made—the one you helped me with.”

  “In honor of her twin sister, right?”

  “Yes. Remember how I told you that she showed up at my cabin almost two weeks ago?” When his friend nodded, Zach continued, pacing back and forth in front of Colin’s desk. “And when I invited her to go see the bench, she said no—and almost ran to her car. Now she wants to see it.”

  “So?”

  “What do you think is going on?”

  “Why do you think something is going on? Maybe she wasn’t ready the first time you asked her and now she is.”

  “But she didn’t sound like herself.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She was almost . . . friendly. That woman does not want to be my friend.”

  “Okay. Or maybe something is going on . . .”

  “Why is it I can never get a straight answer from you?”

  “I did give you a straight answer—two of them. Look, maybe Payton Thatcher suddenly decided to be your friend.”

  “Right.”

  “Or maybe she decided she wants to see the bench . . . and she’s nervous. And she’s covering that up by going all friendly on you. It’s as simple as that.” Colin stood, coming to stand in front of Zach. “Enough pacing. How about I pray for you?”

  “That would be great.”

  Colin rested his hand on Zach’s shoulder. And as he had so many times before, he talked to God in a quiet, sure voice as if He were standing in the room with them.

  “You know why Payton called Zach today, God. Help him to be the friend she needs. May her heart find healing and hope. Amen.”

  The closer I got to Winter Park, the faster and thicker the snowflakes fell from the gray sky overhead. The wipers beat a steady rhythm against the windshield, the scenery fading to white as I sipped coffee and let Keith Urban sing about boys getting a truck.

  Of course, I’d left Denver that morning, not once thinking that it might snow in the mountains.

  I slowed down, other cars passing me by and tossing dirty snow onto my windshield. Bad weather or not, I was going to see Pepper’s bench. Confront the past. Find a way to tell the truth.

  But what would be gained when I did so? What would be lost?

  When I arrived and parked alongside Zach’s truck, Laz greeted me by running around in circles. Zach shook his head at my sleeveless down vest and low boots, leading me into the cabin, despite my protests that I was fine.

  “You must be the only person living in Colorado who doesn’t check the weather report.” Zach’s voice was muffled as he dug through the hall closet.

  “Very funny.”

  “Here.” Zach offered me an oversize winter jacket, a pair of gloves, and a knit cap. “This should keep you warm enough. My mom always kept spare things up here, and I never got around to cleaning out the closet.”

  “Thanks.” I slid the coat over my vest, pulling the hat over my ears. “You’re sure I’m not keeping you from anything?”

  “Yep. I try not to work on projects on the weekend unless I absolutely have to.” Zach zipped up his coat, pulling a pair of gloves out of one of the pockets. “What about you? No events this weekend?”

  “Kimberlee is doing some prep today for a celebration tomorrow. Bianca—she’s our receptionist—is helping her. We’ll talk tonight about what else needs to be done.”

  “You two are a good team.”

  “It’s a good arrangement.”

  Zach held open the cabin door. “You about ready?”

  Ready? No. Determined? “Yes.”

  Laz ran ahead of us the moment we stepped outside, barking and kicking up little puffs of snow.

  “We’re heading that way.” Zach motioned toward the cluster of trees at the far end of the field behind the cabin.

  “Right.”

  If Zach was hoping for me to chat, he’d be disappointed. This was like my dream . . . the one where I was searching for Pepper. Only it wasn’t dark. No. Instead, I was outside in the Colorado mountains, snow falling all around me. Zach Gaines walking alongside me. And I wasn’t looking for Pepper.

  I was looking for some way to face my past so I could face my family.

  My steps slowed the closer we got to our destination. It was as if something . . . the truth, maybe . . . weighed me down. My chest hurt, and I struggled to take a deep breath.

  Zach matched his steps to mine. “You okay, Payton?”

  “Yes.”

  I’d come this far. I wasn’t turning back. Wasn’t escaping to my car. Wasn’t going back to what I’d lived like for the past ten years. No more dodging memories. Or closing my eyes, my heart, to what had happened. Maybe . . . maybe if I returned to the scene of my crime, I could—what? Absolve myself of my sins?

  My steps faltered . . . stopped.

  Something was different. What was it?

  The stretch of trees ended abruptly in a staggered row of severed trunks. In front of the stumps, facing away from the cabin and toward the expanse of the Rocky Mountains, stood the bench Zach had made for Pepper.

  “What happened to the trees?”

  “I . . . I chopped them down.” Zach stared at the horizon. “It was a type of physical therapy. Or a whole new form of anger management. I spent five years dulling my emotions with alcohol. Once I stopped drinking, I had to figure out how to deal with the memories. My anger. My regret. You spend all day swinging an ax, you don’t have any energy left except to eat whatever’s in the fridge, take a shower—maybe—and go to sleep.”

  “What did you do with the wood?”

  “I burned most of it in the fireplace.” Zach moved forward and rested his hands on the back of the bench. “And I used some of it to make this.”

  Zach had transformed the tree into a bench. Pepper’s bench. My knees buckled and I stumbled forward, allowing Zach to guide me. He brushed a layer of snow from the seat, helping me sit before I fell to my knees.

  When Zach said he’d made a bench to commemorate Pepper, I’d envisioned some sedate bench with wooden slats and wrought-iron arms—the kind of thing I’d seen hundreds of times set near a park lake, creating an idyllic scene.

  But this . . . this bench was part tree, part memorial, with its rough edges and polished surfaces. The inner veins of the tree glistened gold, umber, and brown on the back and the seat, while two pieces of the trunk held the bench in place.

  I removed my gloves, my fingertips finding a few stray snowflakes as I traced the design of the wood. “This isn’t what I expected. . . .”

  Zach sat beside me, leaving space between us. “I’m sorry if you don’t like it—”

  “No. No, I didn’t say that. I think it’s perfect.”

  Neither of us said anything for a few moments, snowflakes falling around us, until Zach broke the silence. “Why did you decide to come up here today, Payton?”