The Taste of Rain

The Taste of Rain The Clover City Files, Volume 1 Barbara Howard Published by Barbara Howard Media, 2023. This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental. THE TASTE OF RAIN First edition. June 6, 2023. Copyright © 2023 Barbara Howard. ISBN: 979-8215355046 Written by Barbara Howard. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page The Taste of Rain (The Clover City Files, #1) Sign up for Barbara Howard's Mailing List Also By Barbara Howard About the Author Her coffin shaped nails bit into the palms of her tightened fists as Amira tried to calm her jittery fingers but to no avail. She couldn’t place the blame on her usual red-eye coffee with the double-shot of espresso that she had each morning on the way to Social Theory class. She had skipped the daily ritual to ride downtown with her sister, Jasmine. It wasn’t unusual for Amira to borrow her sister’s car for job interviews now that she was in her final year at Briarwood College. Although that wasn’t the reason this day. After Jasmine had begrudgingly agreed, Amira dropped her off at work. Then made haste out of downtown Clover City just as traffic in the commuter lanes seized up and horns blared behind her. She had not shared anything about her plans, and Jasmine didn’t ask. She could never mention Claire or her work at Gladstone. Why start another fight with her sister over nothing? Once she made it onto the interstate along the lakeshore, the road opened before her. Outside of the city limits, the morning fog lifted above the sprawling landscape, and she arrived at Cedar Heights Estates in record time. As she approached the entrance of the affluent community, she couldn’t help but admire the lush greenery that surrounded it. The perfectly manicured lawns were dotted with colorful hydrangea, rhododendron, and viburnum, while tall white pines and weeping purple birch trees provided shade and privacy. She parked and checked her watch. Plenty of time. She stepped out of the car and inhaled a deep breath as if the city congestion had settled in her chest and at long last, she could expand her lungs to their full capacity. Even the air smelled expensive. Only five minutes had passed since that liberating moment, and now she stood frozen staring at the Tudor home that sat regally on the quiet street. Its dark timbered facade was adorned with intricate stonework, and the steeply pitched roof featured gabled dormer windows that added a touch of charm to the already impressive exterior. It was funny how she had not bothered to find a photo of the place when searching for directions online, as if she would know it once she got there. How long had she been standing there? She checked her watch again. Yes, exactly five minutes that seemed like hours, overshadowed by the sudden twinge of regret. She unfolded her fingers, revealing the balled-up piece of ink-stained notepaper. The clamminess of her palm had caused the blue ink to bleed through, so the tiny handwriting was barely legible. Although Claire Stewart was somewhere around seventy-five years old (no one knew for sure), her penmanship was remarkably strong and her attitude even more so. Amira peeled back the folds of the note and checked the address again. 312 Pierpont Lane. “Yeah,” she whispered. “This is the place.” The local HOA was probably responsible for the freshly cut lawn billed to the owner or legal representative, Amira surmised. However, it could not conceal the fact that the house was abandoned. She took a step toward it, and another sense of panic washed over her. As beautiful as the house looked from the street, at closer inspection, everything was off. The clematis and trumpet honeysuckle had overtaken the wrought iron lamp post near the front entrance and the planters were overflowing with weeds. The paint had puckered along the edges of the wooden window frames and the shutters rested askew, rattling against the stone sills with each breeze from Emerald Lake. “What am I afraid of?” She approached the threshold of the front door and announced to herself, “I can do this.” She gave a quick glance over her shoulder and wondered if she should try the back door instead. But from the looks of things, that would be a riskier chance for her to get caught if she rounded the yard as that side of the property faced the rest of the cul-de-sac. Caught? Health aides running errands for the residents of Gladstone Nursing Home, although frowned upon, was not illegal. If that had been the case, Amira would have been fired months ago. She peeked around the yard again. The only witnesses were the disheveled swan topiary and a garden gnome face-planted on the earth. Claire asked her to handle this, gave her written instructions and the key to her house. So, if anyone stopped her, she had proof that she was not trespassing. But no matter how much she tried to convince herself, the knot in her stomach drummed one note; that this was a mistake, and it was too late to back out. Trapped in a promise. She took another deep breath. And another step forward. “Just get it over with.” She shoved her hand in her jeans pocket, pulled out the key, and stepped over the stack of uncollected newspapers on the stoop. She used the back of her sleeve to clear a circle on the small window in the apple green oak door and peered inside. The foyer was covered in shadows, and the interior wall blocked the view of the rest of the first floor. She put the key into the antique brass lock and tried to turn it. It wouldn’t budge. She caught a glimpse of a dark SUV approaching from the circular lane, lowered her head, and twisted the key with all her strength. Finally.