Page 3 of In Her Grasp

Two days ago, the lunch with her mother had been full of tension, reflecting years of unresolved issues. Margaret Graves’ hands had trembled slightly, betraying the firmness in her voice as she deflected Jenna’s concerns about her drinking problem. Their parting had been abrupt when Jenna got a call about a case. She had last seen her mother sitting there in the café alone, leaving Jenna with a hollow promise to herself: next time would be different.

“Go see your mother, hon,” Cassie implored with a delicate earnestness. “You’ve got this heavy heart for too long. Maybe it’s time to lighten the load a bit.”

Jenna met Cassie’s gaze. “It’s not that simple, Cass. Last time, we barely spoke two words without them turning into daggers. But I can’t let it be like that forever,” she admitted. “I owe it to her... to us... to try again.”

“Exactly,” Cassie smiled, her bracelets clinking like chimes in the quiet room. “You’re the strongest person I know, Jenna Graves. If anyone can bridge that gap, it’s you.”

“Thanks, Cass.” Jenna managed a thin smile.

With a nod that felt like an agreement with herself as much as with Cassie, Jenna pushed her chair back and began gathering her handbag and keys.

“Remember, Jenna, the future isn’t written,” Cassie said, standing to hug her friend. “We make our own paths as we go along.”

“Sometimes I wish it were that easy,” Jenna replied, embracing the warmth of Cassie’s hug before pulling away.

Cassie squeezed Jenna’s hands once more, then released them, stepping back to give Jenna space to leave. “Nothing worth doing is ever easy,” she said, “but you’ve never backed down from a challenge.”

“See you soon, Cass,” Jenna said, offering a genuine smile this time, bolstered by her friend’s faith in her.

“Take care, Sheriff Graves,” Cassie called out with a playful salute.

The screen door closed with a soft click behind her, leaving Cassie and her tarot cards in the quiet kitchen while Jenna stepped out into the afternoon, the sun high and assertive in the sky.

As Jenna navigated her patrol car along the familiar route to her childhood home, Cassie’s words echoed in her mind—encouraging, but they couldn’t fully quell the flutter of unease that accompanied these visits to Mom.

Jenna ran through potential conversations in her head, rehearsing apologies and support she might offer, while bracing for the inevitable defenses and accusations. Piper’s unexplained absence loomed large between her and her mother, a chasm that twenty years had only deepened. Her father’s death from cancer five years ago had added to her mother’s anguish. When Jenna had commented on her heavy drinking, Mom had responded, “I’m a widow, Jenna, and a mother who lost a child. How am I supposed to cope?”

As Jenna turned onto the gravel driveway of the house where she grew up, a wave of nostalgia washed over her, mingling with a pang of sorrow. Jenna cut the engine and sat for a moment, collecting herself.

The property had changed since her father’s passing; the vibrant life that once animated its walls and gardens had faded, leaving behind an air of neglect. The house once painted a cheerful yellow, now bore the scars of paint starting to peel. A tire swing that had once been the magic vessel of Jenna and Piper’s childhood adventures hung limp from an old oak tree, its old rope frayed. The garden, once a riot of colors and fragrances, lay dormant, weeds daring to claim dominion over forgotten flower beds.

Then Jenna’s eye was caught by the motion of someone in a wide-brimmed hat. Was that Mom there in the yard, braving the sunlight she usually avoided?

CHAPTER TWO

The scene was at odds with Jenna’s expectations. For a heartbeat, she remained motionless, observing someone in the yard of Mom’s house hunched over garden beds that had lain fallow for years.

Then that wide-brimmed sunhat turned to the side and she could see that the person at work was definitely her mother, Margaret Graves. She was holding tools of cultivation, not the bottle Jenna had grown so accustomed to seeing there. It was as if a fragment of the past had been grafted onto the present, offering a glimpse of what once was —the mother who tended to her garden with the same care she once tended to her daughters.

Jenna watched for a moment, taking in the sight of her mother, enveloped by the scent of soil and sweat, laboring to bring life back to the earth. A sense of cautious hope flickered in Jenna’s chest. If her mother was finding her way back to these simple acts of nurturing, perhaps there was a chance for healing after all.

She shut down her car’s engine and stepped out, her boots crunching on the gravel, badge glinting in the morning light. It wasn’t often these days that she saw her mother attending to anything with such determination. Since her father’s passing, the untamed garden had been left to its own devices, becoming a wild thing all its own. But this morning, amidst the chaotic tangle of weeds, Jenna found a glimmer of something resembling hope.

“Mom,” Jenna called, as she approached.

Mom paused, wiping a beaded brow with the back of her gloved hand. “Oh, Jenna,” she breathed out, a weary smile gracing her lips. “Just thought I’d try to tackle this mess. Been too long, hasn’t it?”

“Five years,” Jenna replied, looking over what used to be a vibrant array of flowers and vegetables. She observed her mother, noting the resolve in her posture. Were those signs of a spirit reigniting?

“Your father would have hated seeing it like this,” Mom continued, her gaze sweeping over the garden, where memories seemed to grow as thick as the underbrush she now sought to reclaim.

“It’s good to see you out here, Mom,” Jenna said, her words measured, carefully chosen to encourage without overwhelming. She knew the delicate balance her mother teetered on—the fine line between succumbing to grief and pushing through it. And though Jenna had spent countless nights chasing specters in both dreams and reality, nothing haunted her quite like the fear of losing another loved one.

Mom plunged her hands back into the earth, pulling at intrusive weeds with a vigor that seemed to pulse from her core. Jenna watched, the rigid tension in her mother’s shoulders telling of an inner battle fought and, for the moment, won. The sight was startling, not just because of the physical labor, but because of the spark behind it—a flicker of the woman who had once taught Jenna the names of every flower and herb they planted side by side.

“Looks like you’ve found your stride,” Jenna remarked, voice laced with cautious optimism as she moved to the porch, where she could see the little garden more clearly.

Her mother straightened up slightly, looking at her daughter with eyes that held more clarity than Jenna had seen in years. “Yesterday was rough, Jenna,” Mom admitted, a sliver of vulnerability breaking through the newfound resolve. “But I woke up this morning tired of feeling... powerless.”

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