Chapter 2 - The Silent Undercurrents of Fluvanna
Todd paused in the bathroom doorway, his button-down shirt half-buttoned, revealing the pale, softened chest of a man who spent his days managing regional real estate portfolios and his nights drinking expensive scotch behind the closed doors of their Richmond brick suburban home. His eyes traveled down the clean lines of Faith’s cream linen dress, lingering on the vibrant Kente-cloth patterned scarf she had tied loosely around her hair to protect her curls from the crushing July humidity.
"It’s a family reunion, Faith, not a political rally," Todd said, his voice carrying that familiar, thin edge of irritation he always used when he felt her presence eclipsing his comfort. "My mother hates when you make everything about... a statement. Just wear the blue polo I bought you. The one with the country club crest."
Faith didn't turn around to look at him. She kept her eyes fixed on her own reflection in the vanity mirror, her fingers steady as she adjusted the second gold hoop in her left ear. She had spent fifteen years looking into the lenses of high-definition broadcast cameras under the glaring, unforgiving heat of studio lights; she knew exactly how to keep her face from showing the micro-expressions of exhaustion that Todd so desperately looked for.
"The dress is linen, Todd. It’s ninety-five degrees in Fluvanna today," she said, her voice dropping into the calm, modulated alto that millions of Virginians listened to every evening on the 6:00 p.m. news broadcast. "And the scarf belonged to my grandmother. It’s not a statement. It’s just my heritage."
Todd let out a short, wet scoff, buckling his leather belt with a sharp snap. "Right. Heritage. Just don't start lecturing the councilwoman about the municipal housing budget like you did last year. My brother’s trying to close a land deal in the western district, and we don't need the local news anchor playing activist over the potato salad."
He walked out of the room, his heavy leather loafers thudding against the hardwood hallway, leaving behind the faint, synthetic scent of high-end cologne and stale gin from the night before.
Faith let out a long, slow breath through her nose, her hands resting flat against the marble edges of the sink. She looked at the small silver watch on her wrist—a gift from the station management when she had marked her tenth year as the lead investigative anchor for WVRA-Richmond. It was 8:14 a.m.
The drive to Fluvanna County would take exactly one hour and twenty minutes if they took the back roads through Goochland, bypassing the holiday traffic on Interstate 64.
Five minutes later, her mother, Naomi, walked into the kitchen, carrying the glass dish of peach cobbler wrapped in a clean, red-and-white checkered dish towel. Naomi was sixty-eight, her hair a beautiful, tight crown of silver wool, her eyes wide and observant behind small, wire-rimmed reading glasses. She had lived through the tail end of Jim Crow in southern Virginia; she knew the smell of an old house that didn't want you inside it long before she ever set foot on the Anderson estate.
"Todd’s already in the garage," Naomi said softly, setting the warm dish on the kitchen island. "He didn't look at the cobbler, Faith. Just complained about the trunk space."
"He’s stressed, Ma," Faith said, though the words tasted like ash in her mouth. She hated herself every time she offered the standard, rehearsed justifications for him. It was a habit she’d developed over nine years—a slow, systematic erosion of her own boundaries that had started with small concessions and ended with her living in a house where her voice was only welcome if it was reading a script someone else wrote.
Naomi placed a warm, wrinkled hand over Faith’s forearm. "You don't have to go to that farm today, baby. You’ve got enough vacation hours saved up. We could stay right here, turn on the air conditioning, and watch the old movies on the public channel."
Faith looked at her mother, seeing the deep, protective worry in the older woman’s eyes. Naomi had been there the night Faith won the regional Emmy for her documentary on the rural hospital closures; she had also been there three months ago when Faith had accidentally left her phone on the kitchen table, and a string of text messages from Todd had illuminated the screen, calling Faith an arrogant, ungrateful bitch because she hadn't come home to cook dinner during a breaking news cycle.
"If I don't go, Ma, it makes the next three months worse," Faith whispered, pulling the dish towel closer around the warm glass. "Eleanor will talk about the snub until Thanksgiving, and Todd will use it as leverage every time I have to stay late at the station for the election previews. It’s just eight hours. We eat the ribs, we smile for Donna’s phone, and we leave before the fireworks start."
Naomi didn't look convinced, but she nodded anyway, her fingers tightening briefly around Faith’s arm before she reached for her purse. "Alright. But if that brother of his, Brett, starts talking about the 'good old days' of the county line again, I’m putting my cobbler back in the car and walking to the bus station."
The drive out to the Anderson estate was a masterclass in domestic silence. Todd drove his silver Mercedes SUV with an aggressive, jerky precision, his eyes fixed on the rural blacktop as the suburban brick developments of Richmond gave way to the rolling hills, ancient oaks, and white-painted horse fences of central Virginia.
Faith sat in the passenger seat, her phone resting in her lap. The screen was dark, but it didn't stay that way for long. Every twenty minutes, a small, encrypted notification from a secure messaging app would flash across the glass.
Marcus (WVRA): Source just dropped the second set of bank logs. The shell company in Delaware is definitely linked to the Fluvanna conservation easement. It’s the same signature, Faith. The councilwoman signed the variance on the third of last month.
Faith didn't reply. She couldn't, not with Todd’s eyes occasionally darting toward her lap, his jaw tight as he monitored her movements.
"You're working," Todd said, his voice dropping as they passed the rusted green sign that marked the Fluvanna County line. "I told you, no stories today. My mother hired a professional photographer from Charlottesville for the family portrait. If you look like you’re trying to track down a corrupt sheriff while they’re taking the picture, it’s going to ruin the whole layout."
"I'm just reading the news alerts, Todd," Faith said smoothly, sliding the phone into the deep pocket of her linen dress. "The weather's supposed to turn later this afternoon. A line of severe thunderstorms coming across the Blue Ridge."
"Good," Todd muttered, turning the vehicle onto the long, gravel driveway of the Anderson estate. "Maybe the rain will keep your mother from sighing every time Brett tells a joke."
The gravel crunched beneath the heavy tires, the sound sharp and loud as the white colonial mansion materialized through the ancient sycamore trees. The lawn was already dotted with red-and-white striped tents, and the smell of hickory smoke from the barbecue pit was thick enough to catch in the throat.
May you like
As Todd parked the car near the old horse stables, Faith looked up at the massive white porch columns. She could see Eleanor Anderson standing at the top of the steps, wearing a crisp pastel blouse, her pearls catching the harsh morning sun as she directed a team of catering workers with the sharp, flicking hand gestures of a plantation mistress born a century too late.
Faith reached down, picked up her mother’s peach cobbler, and opened the car door. The heavy, suffocating heat of the Virginia summer hit her instantly, but it wasn't nearly as heavy as the weight that settled into her chest the moment her feet touched the Anderson gravel.
