The Stone Necklace

by Carla Damron

  Abby said, “Phillip! Nice of you to join us. Guess our coffee wasn’t good enough for you?”

  “Abby,” Lena said crisply, but she noticed her boys doing little to hide their grins.

  “I couldn’t wait for the caffeine,” Phillip said, dropping into the sofa and opening the briefcase on the narrow coffee table. He patted his jacket and shirt pockets like he’d lost something, then rummaged through the briefcase for a pen. “Shall we get started?”

  Elliott sat beside Lena, his knees bumping against each other, his gaze flitting around the room as if he wasn’t sure where he fit in. Sims took Mitch’s chair, sitting forward, notebook in hand, eyes fixed on Phillip. She could count on him to ask the right questions. Abby helped herself to another slice of coffeecake. Lena wasn’t sure Abby should be there—this was a Hastings family matter—but Abby might come up with questions Lena never thought of.

  “Let me start,” Phillip said, “by saying that the business is as solid as it can be in the current market. But we’ve taken a hit over the past sixteen months. A sizeable one. I’ve been working on a huge deal since June, one I thought would keep us going until the market improves. Unfortunately, it’s not looking good.”

  “What kind of deal?” Abby asked. “What happened?”

  “Commercial. We bought a strip mall when we learned of a large anchor store coming into the northeast section of town. If it happened, the strip mall would have quadrupled in value. It would have saved our butts.”

  “What kind of store?” Elliott asked.

  “Wal-Mart. A stupid Super Wal-Mart.” He huffed out a laugh that was too loud and pitched too high. Lena clutched the stone.

  Phillip rifled through his papers. “Sorry. The store’s going north of Sandhills. So our strip mall is worth . . . pretty much nothing.”

  “How much did you invest?” Abby asked.

  He ignored the question and turned back to Lena. “I wanted to get accurate numbers from the bank in case we were talking about buyout here. To be honest, I wouldn’t recommend that, not right now. With the economy like it is, all I can offer is half the value of our assets. And since almost all of our money is tied up in real estate, and the real estate market is in the tank right now—well, you’d be better off letting me build up revenue before I buy out Mitch’s side of the business.”

  Sims looked up from his notebook. “How much capital does the firm have?”

  Phillip eyed Sims then Lena. “Right now, we have forty-three thousand in the bank.”

  “That’s all?” Sims stiffened.

  “Over a million in investments. At least, they were worth that twenty-six months ago. Now—I don’t even want to look into what they’re worth. It’s too depressing.”

  “Depressing or not, you sure as hell better look into it!” Abby’s voice overwhelmed the room. “And how much did you put in the worthless strip mall?”

  “The real estate world is fickle. We may still sell the mall. Any big sale now can make a world of difference.”

  Abby’s scowl made him look away.

  “I’ve got Dad’s phone,” Sims said. “The son-of-a-bitch you’ve been dealing with has called a dozen times. Maybe if you’d been around this deal might have happened.”

  Phillip didn’t reply.

  “What happens now? What happens to Mom and Becca?” Elliott’s voice sounded so young that Lena fought an impulse to pat his leg and assure him everything would be okay. She would not lie. Her sons would be treated like adults.

  “What about the reserve fund?” Lena asked. Both sons looked at her. She added, “Mitch always kept a rainy day fund.”

  “He was always the cautious one,” Phillip said with an edge of sadness.

  “Then there is more money.” Elliott’s knees bumped with more vigor.

  “Of course,” Lena answered, watching Phillip, who was busy looking everywhere but at her.

  “This money was in the business account?” Sims asked. “Or personal savings?”

  “Business,” Phillip replied. “I’m not sure about his personal accounts. Lena has those records. They’ll be frozen until they’re made into estate accounts.”

  Lena didn’t know how much was in the bank. She didn’t want her sons to think her helpless, unable to manage the household finances. Worse would be for her daughter to think she needed a man to take care of her. How had she let this happen?

  “What’s the situation with the reserve account?” Sims asked.

  A taut silence fell between them. Abby stood and walked over to the sofa. “Well? What’s the story, Phillip?” she demanded.

  He looked at Lena. “The reserve account is nearly dry.”

  “What the hell happened to it? When was the rainy day?” Abby demanded.

  “We’ve had twenty-six months of rain thanks to the economy but that’s not what happened to the account.” When he looked at her again she sensed him telepathically trying to tell her something.

  “I don’t understand,” Elliott said. “Dad was always so careful with money.”

  “Of course he was.” Sims looked at her, too. A fist squeezed her lungs.

  “My cancer.” The truth closed around her. “When I was sick. Mitch stayed home to take care of me. That’s when he spent down the account.”

  “He knew where he needed to be,” Phillip said. “Business was slow, so I told him to tap into the reserves. But we had no idea how far down the market would go. Who could have guessed? Things will turn around. That’s what we kept saying to each other. We’ve ridden dips before. Hell, we opened shop in the eighties, things seriously sucked then. But not like these last twenty-six months.”

  How had Mitch kept that from her? Why had he? She felt dizzy from this new information. What would happen to them?

  Phillip flicked the pen as he studied her oldest son. “There’s one more thing we can consider here. Mitch used to talk about bringing you into the firm, Sims. He and I both know you’re an astute business man. Banking has given you a great foundation, and you work under me until you get your own realtor license. Calloway and Hastings can continue for another generation.”

  Sims’s eyes widened.

  “I’m serious. The Hastings name means something in this town, thanks to your father. I can’t think of anything that would make your dad happier than to have you pick up where he left off.”

  Lena stared at her husband’s friend, astounded. What kind of game was Phillip playing?

  “Is that what you want, Sims?” Abby asked. “Did Mitch ever talk with you about it?”

  “A few times. But I’m not the salesman he was. That’s not my strength. Or my interest.”

  “You could learn.” Phillip spoke with more energy now. “And Elliott, there’s room for you, too. I know you’ve got that music thing going in New York, but if you ever get tired of it, we have room for you with the company.”

  Lena heard condescension in his tone when he said, “that music thing.”

  “You could be a realtor, Ell,” Abby said. “You could sell ice cream to Eskimos if that’s what you wanted to do. But would you be happy?”

  “Absolutely not,” Lena said, looking hard at her younger son. “You are a gifted musician. You’ve worked hard on your career and your dad was very proud of you. Don’t even think about giving that up.”

  “Nobody needs to decide anything right now,” Phillip said. “Both of you should give it some thought. And Lena, if you do want me to buy you out, we’ll need to set up a meeting with your attorney. Again, now is not a good time to do that.”

  “I’ll need some time to think about all this.” Lena stood, eager for this meeting to be over. She had so much to consider. So much to learn. The depletion of the reserve account changed everything. It made them vulnerable in a way she hadn’t expected. She needed to review their personal accounts and Mitch’s life insurance policy and found herself a little nauseated from this news.

  “Okay.” Phillip gathered his papers in a stack and handed them to Sims. “Y
ou might want to review these financials. Call me if you have any questions. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll check in at the end of the week.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Becca leaned against the tree, stretching one leg, then the other, eager to start her run. She had seen Mr. Calloway’s silver Audi pulling into the drive for the big meeting, which she was glad to miss. They had probably talked about the problems with the real estate company. When was Mom going to find out about the second mortgage on the house? And the other money problems? What was Mom going to do? She didn’t work. She was good at spending money, not making it.

  Best not to think about that now. Just as she collected her hair in a scrunchy, the cell phone rang: Dylan.

  “Hey Becca.”

  Hearing his voice made something tickle in her chest.

  “How are you? You okay?” He spoke fast, like he was nervous, which made her like him even more.

  “I’m okay. Getting ready to run.”

  “Oh, sorry. If it’s a bad time—”

  “Not a bad time at all. How’s school? I don’t suppose it burned down while I was out.”

  “You wish.”

  “What’s been going on?” Becca didn’t need to know—Kayla had covered all the relevant gossip on who was dating whom, what stupid assignments she had to finish. But she let Dylan tell her anyway, savoring his concern when he said, “Don’t worry about this. It’s all crap. When are you coming back?”

  “Tomorrow.” She plunked down on a patch of bristly grass between the sidewalk and the road. “I can’t believe I’m looking forward to it.”

  “That’s . . . weird.”

  “I just want normal. I can barely remember what normal is,” she answered.

  He didn’t say anything for a few beats, and she wondered if she shouldn’t have said that bit about “normal.” Dylan never needed to know how far from “normal” she was.

  “Sometimes normal is important,” he answered. “I’m sure ready for you to get back. You owe me a lunch date.”

  Becca smiled at the thought of lunch with him. Maybe it would become a daily thing. After, they’d sit under one of the oak trees till the bell rang. It would become their tree.

  “Thanks for the card,” she said. Elliot had found it stuck in the storm door.

  “Hope it wasn’t too dorky. I looked through a bunch of them. They all had embossed flowers and crosses and stuff. Didn’t seem to fit you.”

  “No, it was perfect.” She smiled that he knew what “fit” her. The card had a yellow dog with its head hanging down and inside it said, “Sometimes life sucks.” No other message, except Dylan’s name in blue, printed. The D plain, with no elaborate hoops. She’d wedged the card between the frame and the mirror on her dresser.

  “When did you bring it over?” she asked.

  “Yesterday. Dad never lets me have the car, so I had to do some tricky familial maneuvering.”

  “Oh yeah? Tell me.”

  He huffed out another laugh. “No way. You don’t want to hear about my family. Trust me.”

  “I said I wanted normal.”

  “Normal is not a word you’d use if you knew them.”

  She imagined walking down the hall at school with Dylan, their hands entwined. He’d kiss her before they went in to class. Every night they would talk on the phone until time to go to sleep. Maybe he would sneak over to her house, throw rocks at her window, and she would tiptoe outside where they’d lie in the grass looking up at the moon.

  “Okay, if you really want to know,” Dylan said. “Here’s how I got the car: Mom was at work, which kind of sucked because she’s an easier mark. My brother Dwight was watching wrestling, so I knew he’d be tied up for a while. I saw a light on in the sad little room Dad calls his office. Dad can’t stand to be interrupted. He claims it disturbs his work but he’s playing on-line poker or checking out porn . . . never mind.” Dylan cleared his throat.

  Becca grinned at the image of Dylan’s face flushing pink. “So your dad was researching exotic photos?”

  “Uh, yeah. So I go to the office and cough and the uhm . . . exotic pictures disappear fast.”

  “That’s very respectful of you.”

  “I ask if I can use the car. Dad looks at me like I’ve asked permission to blow up the kitchen and says no. It’s this stupid game we do. I want something, he holds it out of reach.”

  Dylan’s voice darkened. “He asks me where I’m going. I tell him I want to go to Jim’s house to borrow history notes for a test next week.”

  “You’re a good liar. I’ll have to remember that.”

  “Well, it’s required in my house. So Dad scratches his chin like he actually cares what the hell I’m doing. Just another part of the game. Am I boring you?”

  “No, I like hearing about a screwed up family that isn’t mine.”

  “Then Dad makes some comment about Mr. Whedon having gone to Clemson, and launches into his own stellar scholastic career: two years at Tech in automotive repair. He says he makes twenty thousand more than Jim’s dad and I sure don’t tell him that Jim’s dad is an electrical engineer who drives a BMW.”

  Becca decided Dylan’s dad was an ass. “How did you get the car?”

  “I had a brilliant insight. We share one computer, so I tell him I could email Jim, ask him to scan the notes and send them. Of course, the computer is so slow, it’ll take a while . . .”

  “Which would seriously interfere with his exotic photo research.”

  “Exactly.” He sort of laughed out the word. “He gives me the keys, then I get the one card the CVS had that wasn’t filled with Bible verses, and find your house.”

  She plucked up a blade of brown grass. “Sorry I wasn’t home.”

  “You live in a much nicer area than I do. Your house is very . . . big.”

  “We may have to move somewhere smaller.” She pictured her and her mom alone in the house, and the giant mortgage that would have to be paid.

  “Maybe you’ll end up on my side of town. Well, I’ll let you get back to your running. I’ll see you in school tomorrow,” he said.

  “And we’re having lunch,” she said with a smile.

  Becca felt a warm energy inside as she tucked the phone back in her pocket and resumed her stretches. Her muscles would flex like smooth elastic when she was in shape, but they felt hard as rocks after so many days without exercise. A few more bends and she was off.

  Becca could run fast when she had a mind to, and her thoughts about Dylan put bounce in every step. She didn’t slow for the bulldog behind the picket fence. She sailed across Forest Drive, passing cars stopped at a red light. She felt like a racehorse, not even feeling her legs underneath her, breath puffing out faster and faster. At the garden shed already—a half mile. How far would she go today? Maybe she’d keep running. She had no desire to return home.

  Yesterday she’d had a slip with the Doritos like the night of the funeral. But with Dad dying and all the confusion, a few mistakes could be forgiven. She was back in control now. She’d run off those calories and start afresh.

  The hill on Trenholm Road winded her but she did not slow as she crested it and let the downhill side pull her even faster. She didn’t worry about stumbling, about some bump in the sidewalk throwing her off stride. She was reckless. Breathless. Breakneck.

  Free.

  She made the automatic turn that led to the park, but she wouldn’t loop it like she normally did. This time she would shoot like an arrow through the middle, not pausing for a drink of water from the fountain, not circling the playground where the little kids climbed about in the sandbox.

  And then it hit. A pain stabbed like a knife in her side. She almost tripped trying to stop, her hand groping at the searing spot under her ribs. A cramp, she’d had them before, only this felt so much worse and she thought she might throw up, and not on purpose.

  She found a bench, grabbed the back of it and bent forward, frantic to relieve the pain. It didn’t work. Her legs tightened, a
spasm lightening up her thighs, and she pulled herself around to collapse on the seat. She gulped in shallow pockets of air. What was happening to her?

  All she could do was try to breathe away the pain. She leaned over, her side on the bench now, her hands pressing against her gut. The maple tree towering above her blurred, green slurring into the gray, into the blue of the sky. Cold. She felt cold. Shivering.

  JOE BOOKER TIGHTENED HIS coat against the cold breeze. It had been a long day of walking, of battling the demon. He rounded the corner and eyed the park ahead, the one with the shade trees and the swing set. There was a bench where he liked to sit when the sunset filled the sky with color, and the voices inside weren’t too loud. Or times like today, when he could watch a storm roll in. Papa had loved storms, too, though mostly he liked heat lightning. “Flashbulbs going off behind the clouds,” he’d say.

  Someone was there, on his bench. A small person, tilted over like she was napping. No matter, he’d find another spot if he kept walking. He slowed though, studying the girl and wondering if he should wake her before the police spotted her. The girl had a sweatshirt on, the hood pulled up. Nice running shoes, toes dug into the dirt. A pale hand, a nice watch, strands of hair over her face. Shiny hair, not like Rag Doll’s matted mess.

  “Help her.” The voice spoke in a private whisper.

  Joe stumbled back at the sound. After so long, he’d almost forgotten. The voice filled him with fear and wonder and made him want to run but he couldn’t.

  “Help her.”

  After all this time, the Lord had called to him. He wanted Joe to help the girl? He had to follow the instructions, do what was asked or else the Lord might give up on him again. He inched closer to the girl and touched her shoulder. Her head shifted, tendrils of hair slipping from her face. Joe leaned over, recognizing the small nose, the pink shivering lips. Mr. Mitch’s girl.

  “Help her.”

  He nudged her harder but she wouldn’t wake. “Miss? Miss!” The skin on her neck felt cold and trembly. Sick. Mr. Mitch’s girl was bad sick.