“Yeah, but I’m thankful for it.”
“Well, thank you, too.”
“For what?”
“Not giving up.”
And we drive.
EPILOGUE
LAYLA
Sirens carve city air into meaty strips. Countless bodies carrying shopping bags emblazoned with designer names shadow the sun-saturated sidewalks.
Dad is always late when it’s his turn to pick the venue for our hangout. He’s at least gotten better about trying new things. The Art Institute is a newish thing for him. He fell in love with the museum after they featured a show of up-and-coming artists, and J.P. was selected to participate. J.P.’s art on those walls, the mingling of his colors on a canvas, his talent displayed for all to see, astounded and humbled us, but there was something deeper for Dad. And even though the exhibition was a temporary one, even though there was no promise J.P.’s work would ever be shown there again, there’s abiding faith it will be.
Lebanon hasn’t stepped foot in Calvary Hope Christian Church since Tennessee. Some of the congregation still frequent his bakery. They say it’s nice. I don’t go. Neither does Dad.
But Dad does visit Ms. Sara’s grave when Grandma Violet comes back every summer from Tennessee. Every visit, Grandma takes a bouquet of roses. Grandma Violet made sure Ms. Sara was buried at Restvale Cemetery, on the other side of her mother, Sophia. Grandma Violet said Sophia had the prettiest eyes, almost golden in the sunlight.
I found my third angel.
Ruby visited Sara’s grave once, after she got back. She said she didn’t remember Sara, that she saw her only once when she was really young, and that Lebanon never talked about her. Before Ruby left, she said a prayer and hasn’t been back since.
Grabbing my phone with the sole purpose of tracking down my father, my engagement ring snags the lining of my coat pocket. I’m still learning how to gracefully reach into purses and pockets without destroying them or breaking a finger. After Tennessee, there was no pretense between Tim and me, no hesitant declaration of feelings or intent, we just knew what we wanted and moved forward. Somehow, it’s still weird being engaged to Tim. It’s weird and wonderful, and I have this part in my heart, that even on my worst days, still glows.
Glancing at my screen I find a missed a text from Ruby who’s making sure I’ll pick her up from Midway Airport after church tomorrow.
Too many emojis. There are five smileys, an airplane, and three yellow hearts. I don’t know how she became that person who sends texts with all these emojis. When we speak, which is just about every night, the voice on the phone, her voice, is joyful, like I’ve never heard before.
She’s happy in the Tennessee sunlight, hidden in its indigo dreams. She repainted the red door of her home a bright green. Walks her rescue dog, a pit mix named Beau. Takes a dance class Tuesdays and Thursdays. Loves her job as a social worker. Keeps the house filled with a vase of sunflowers or lilies or gardenias next to the picture in the silver frame, and the picture of her and Alice.
Step by step Ruby and I moved on, pushed past costly personal mistakes and parental failures. We fashioned a new peace, uneven and imperfect, but a peace that’s ours and ours alone.
Scanning the horizon of skyscrapers and rumbling buses, I catch my father jogging up the stairs.
“Ready to get some culture, baby?”
“I’ve always had it. I’m my mother’s child,” I say back.
He laughs. It’s a lot easier for him now.
The cavernous museum seems unending. So easy to get lost in paintings and sculptures and history, we lose track of our location, but we keep walking. One of the halls offers a bench. Dad and I take a moment to get our bearings. I people watch, let my mind drift to the presentation on Monday, the one which determines if I make senior associate or not. Trying not to overwhelm myself. I breathe deep, once again immersing myself in beautiful surroundings. Dad is no longer sitting beside me, and I’m pulled to a painting holding his attention like no other piece of art we’ve seen thus far.
The card below reads Pond in the Woods, 1862. It’s a pretty forest meadow with a small body of water surrounded by thick trees. There’s blue sky and clouds and sun providing a path forward out from the inconstant shadow.
“It’s a nice painting,” I say. “There’s some darkness, but it’s supposed to be there. It’s something we need. Makes you appreciate the light more.”
I would ask Dad what he’s thinking, but I won’t.
He’s smiling.
* * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There wouldn’t be a single word on paper without the encouragement, faith and tough love of my momma, Georgia Virginia Willis-West; my awesome big-little brother, Gerald West, Jr., and my father, Gerald West, Sr.
Thanks to my courageous and ah-mazing agent Beth Marshea of Ladderbird Literary Agency. I don’t believe I’d be here if you didn’t take a chance on me. Everlasting gratitude, hugs and tacos to my fantastic editor Laura Brown of Park Row Books. Your faith in this story and your exceptional skill in helping me make it better is the stuff of legend!
Also thank you to my wonderful friends who are more like the additional annoying brothers I didn’t know I needed: Branden Johnson (Probie); Kevin Savoie (Mellow); Andrew Dolbeare (Drew); Michael Burgner (Burgner); and Michael Cody (Cody). You guys know where the bodies are buried because you helped me bury them and would help me bury more if I called you in the middle of the night.
Lastly, to my grandma Viola Willis, and my great-grandmother Georgia Whitaker. I don’t know all the parts of your stories, what you sacrificed, so a black girl from the South Side of Chicago could become a writer. I wish I did. I do know there’s no way to repay you, so I will pay it forward. I will make you proud.
Thank you.
ISBN-13: 9781488057250
Saving Ruby King
Copyright © 2020 by Catherine Adel West
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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