Joe touched a tentative finger to Isabelle’s cheek and when she smiled, a surprised grin broke across his face. “Did you see that?”
“They say it’s only reflex.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Me either.”
They watched Isabelle sleep.
“I’m so relieved,” Joe said after a moment.
“Why?”
“I was scared she’d look like me, but she’s so pretty. She’s the image of you.”
Livie smiled. “Do you need a vase for those?”
Joe produced one. “The nurse loaned it to me.” He went into the bathroom. Livie heard the water running. She thought what a good man he was, so kind and generous in spirit that he simply received whatever part of herself Livie wanted to share. He accepted that she could only offer him her friendship now and a possibility that her affection might deepen over time. Or it might not.
But whatever happened between them, nothing would ever change the fact that he was Isabelle’s father. Livie thought how grateful she was that it was Joe . . . when she thought of all those other men, who it could have been . . . but no. No. That was history now.
“I don’t know the meaning of any of these flowers,” Joe said coming back into the room.
“Spring, new life,” Livie answered because the true meanings weren’t so poetic. Daffodils symbolized chivalry and forget-me-nots true love and that wasn’t so bad, but the poor foxgloves, that she absolutely adored, were saddled with the unflattering definition of insincerity.
“The lady who sold me these said moss was the symbol for maternal love, but I couldn’t see bringing you moss.” He set the vase near the window. Livie pronounced his arrangement gorgeous. Then Kat came, tiptoeing into the room with Zachary. Stella scooted from behind her and peered over the bed rail. Her eyes saucered. “She’s so little. Littler than Zack when he was born, don’t you think, Mommy?”
Livie and Kat agreed that was true.
Soon Charlie and their mother returned. Tim came early from work. The room was full. Livie was overwhelmed. She felt a little like the queen with her admiring court.
When Isabelle woke, Kat helped Stella into the rocking chair and settled the baby in her arms. Stella made silly singsong noises and then raised her gaze. “Auntie Livie, whenever you want me to baby-sit?--I won’t charge very much, you know, ‘cause we’re family.”
Livie laughed. “Your Grammie said it would take a village.”
“The Village of Saunders,” Tim said. He divided a glance between Charlie and Joe. “You realize we’re in deep trouble.”
“How so?” Joe asked.
“We’re outnumbered. It’s five of them to four of us.”
“Did you hear that Isabelle?” Stella whispered. “Girls rule.”
#
It was an early evening in May; the light in her bedroom was translucent. As clear as water. She was watching Isabelle sleep, taking in the sweet details: the way her mouth pursed into a rosebud and then relaxed, the way she held one tiny dimpled fist tucked beneath her chin. The window behind Livie was open allowing a breeze to stir the organdy curtains. At first when she heard it, that covert click as if someone had quietly closed a car door, she wasn’t sure. And then all at once she was. That sound, she’d heard it before on a night a little over a year ago now.
She’d gone to her window then, certain she’d been dreaming, but not this time. No.
Livie hastened into the front hall and out the front door onto the porch. Under her bare feet, the boards were still warm, the air retained a shimmery luminescence. It limned the line of Cotton’s shoulders, the narrower length of his torso, the stretch of his legs. It marked his stride that carried him away from her.
The small bouquet lay on the swing. Livie scooped it up. Violets. His first gift of flowers to her had been violets. For faithfulness and love. He hadn’t known that until she’d taught him. But he’d mixed in something else this time. Sprigs of rosemary.
For remembrance.
Livie went to the edge of the porch and he must have sensed her presence because he turned, smiling his one-cornered smile.
He lifted his hand, a half wave.
She said his name. “Cotton. . . .”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Barbara Taylor Sissel is a freelance writer, book reviewer, and editor, and the author of the suspense novel The Last Innocent Hour. A one-time editor for a small regional press, Barbara has written extensively for the public relations field. An avid gardener, she is currently working with numerous clients on a variety of projects and writing a new novel. She has two sons and lives in The Woodlands, Texas. For more information on past and forthcoming books, you can visit her website at www.barbarataylorsissel.com
READING GROUP GUIDE
The Ninth Step by Barbara Taylor Sissel
1. Knowing what Cotton did that drove him to abandon Livie and leave the state of Texas, do you think he had the right to come back and to ask for her forgiveness?
2. Livie is heartbroken and confused after Cotton’s desertion. Do you feel her behavior with other men in the aftermath of Cotton’s departure is understandable? Do you feel she deserves forgiveness?
3. It appears as if Cotton’s mother started drinking to cope with her abandonment by her family in the wake of a scandal. How did her drinking influence Cotton’s childhood? In your opinion, was it her behavior that caused him to have a drinking problem, too, or is addiction genetic?
4. Gus was protective of her daughters, Livie and Kat, on the one hand, but she was quite liberal morally, on the other, in the ways she exposed her girls to the men with whom she became involved. In what ways were her daughters effected? What do you think of Gus as a mother? How does she compare to Delia, Cotton’s mother, as a parent?
5. Scott moved away leaving Cotton to deal with their mother’s issues. Was Scott right to do this, to basically save himself? When Cotton shows up on Scott’s doorstep in Seattle, should Scott have tried harder to help after Cotton confessed what he’d done? Scott could have reported Cotton to the police. Should he have? What would you do if a sibling came to you with a similar story?
6. Livie wants to believe she has rebuilt her life and moved on yet she maintains a relationship with Delia even though Delia is bitter and rude. What does this indicate about Livie? Is it that down deep, she can’t release the past? Or is she acting out of true concern and compassion for Delia and the difficulties Delia has faced?
7. Cotton’s plan to confess to the Latimers goes awry when Wes Latimer mistakes him for a contractor. At that point Cotton conceives the idea to make restitution for his crime against the family by remodeling Nikki’s garage studio and then disappearing from their lives without receiving payment for his work. Would that have absolved him? Would it have been a better outcome for the Latimers if Cotton had carried through with that idea and they had never learned of his crime?
8. Sometimes when a terrible wrong is committed it seems as if forgiveness is impossible. It feels too much like saying that what happened is okay when it surely isn’t and might never be again. What does forgiveness mean to you? Has there ever been a situation where you were reluctant to grant forgiveness? Do you think there are certain acts that are unforgivable? Would you forgive Cotton?
9. Near the end of the story, Cotton promises Nikki he won’t ever drink and drive again. Did you believe him? Outside of AA meetings, he never really admits he’s an alcoholic. Do you think it’s necessary to an addict’s recovery that they announce their addiction to others beyond the confines of their respective 12-step program? Do you think Cotton was given a long enough sentence for his crime? Did he pay, as well, in other ways?
10. In the end, it’s unclear whom Livie might choose to spend her life with, Cotton or Joe, or whether she will remain unattached to either man. She seems to relish her newfound strength and independence. Do you think that her experience will make her a better mother? A more cautious mother? In your opinion, are single moms more
cautious as a rule? Does she have what it takes to be a single mom?
If you enjoyed
The Ninth Step
you’ll love
The Volunteer
coming in September.
See Barbara’s website for details.
www.barbarataylorsissel.com
An excerpt, Chapter 1, follows.
1
Tuesday, September 14, 1999 - 33 days remain
Sophia doesn’t register the sound when the truck pulls into her driveway. She doesn’t hear the sharp click of the truck’s door when the man makes his exit or the approaching scrape of his steps that slow and then stop at the foot of the stairs. She isn’t aware that he’s watching her. She’s on the small landing above him, outside her office. She came out when her mother called, when the conversation grew heated, needing fresh air, a remedy, knowing there isn’t any. Not in this situation. She holds the cordless receiver a little away from her ear in a vain attempt to soften the complaint in her mother’s voice.
“I won’t have it, Sophia,” her mother declares for at least the fifth time. “You had no right to take my car keys. I will not have you treating me like an incompetent teenager.”
“Believe me, Mother, I’m not too thrilled about it either.” Sophia could laugh, it is such an understatement. “But the State of Texas has left us no choice. They’ve taken your driver’s license.”
“They’re a bunch of fools! I told you that accident wasn’t my fault. The policeman who gave me the ticket was a smart aleck. He wouldn’t listen.”
“Oh, Mother.” Sophia isn’t sure who she’s sorrier for. The only way she and Esther have managed to stay civil to one another is by keeping their distance. Now they will have to be involved almost daily. Sophia is disturbed by the prospect; she resents that it is all on her shoulders now and she’s unhappy with herself, that she can’t summon a more generous spirit. Loosening her gaze, she lets it wander over the backyard toward the lake. She will walk down there, she thinks, when her mother is finished with her tirade. She will take a glass of iced tea and sit at the end of the rickety dock and listen to the water slide against the shore.
The man at the foot of the stairs shifts his feet. Above him Sophia registers the sound, but subliminally, the way you might divine a tiny foreshock, the one that in the moment seems random, but that is actually part of a larger pattern, an announcement of the greater explosion yet to come.
“Frances wants to make peach cobbler,” Esther’s voice needles Sophia’s ear, “but she can’t because we haven’t any peaches. And we need a new birdfeeder. The old one’s lost its perch. I could drive us to get these things, but no, you took the car keys all because of a little fender bender. Everyone has them, Sophia.”
“What is she saying, Sister?” Frances speaks in the background.
“Just make a list, Mother,” Sophia says. “I’ll shop on Satur--”
“No.” Esther is adamant.
Sophia closes her eyes. She isn’t young herself anymore. How much of this can she do? Without losing her temper, her sanity? But now there is a discreet cough behind her and she turns and sees him, the man at the foot of the stairs.
“Someone’s here, Mother. I have to go.”
The man says her name: “Dr. Beckman? Sophia Beckman?”
She clicks off the cordless and in the moment before she answers, along with a dart of annoyance, she has an unreasoning urge to run. Perhaps it is something in the man’s voice that unsettles her. The impulse is gone before she can decide.
“I hope I didn’t scare you.” The man smiles.
She doesn’t.
“I’m Cort Capshaw,” he says.
Sophia sets the phone on the small bench beside her office door and looks beyond him to what she assumes is his white pickup truck parked in her driveway. When she looks back, his gaze seems intense. The line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders is very determined, but not in a way that makes her feel threatened, only more impatient. He’s selling something. He’s going to have some take-no-prisoners spiel. “Can I help you?” she asks. He’s younger than she is but older than her daughter, Sophia decides. Carolyn is twenty-six. He’s nearer forty. Medium height, solidly built, cropped sandy-hair. There’s a quality of stillness to his presence that she could admire, but she won’t. She’s not buying regardless.
“I’m a house painter.” He half turns to gesture across the street. “I’ve been working at Miz McKesson’s and before that I painted the Nelson’s house, around the corner?”
“I’m not interested in having my house painted,” she says, although she’s well aware that the house needs work. In fact, she and Russ had discussed getting bids last fall.
“Oh, I thought--that is Miz McKesson told me you might be putting the house on the market, that you mentioned it would need a bit of sprucing up beforehand.”
“I’m sure she meant to be helpful.” Sophia averts her glance. Nosy woman. It was true; she had told Lily McKesson that she was considering a move. Into something smaller. A rabbit burrow maybe or a tree hollow. Someplace small and obscure where life never fell into uncertainty.
“Painting isn’t just for looks, you know. Can you see there?” His gesture describes an area of siding over the backdoor. “The old paint is flaking. Plus, I noticed a lot of mildew and just an overall chalking.”
Sophia thanks the man for the information. She comes down the remainder of the steps. She’s thinking how warm it is for autumn, as if summer is reluctant to give up its tenancy. She’s thinking if she were rude, she would cut the painter short, tell him she has something more pressing to do.
“What if I come back later and talk to your husband?”
“He died a year ago,” Sophia announces and then wishes to bite off her tongue. What has gotten into her that she would blurt out to a complete stranger that she lives alone? Russ would be appalled.
Cort Capshaw apologizes and says he had no idea.
Sophia is murmuring the obligatory reassurance and thinking Nosy Lily must have failed to inform him of her loss when Lily’s Cadillac pulls to the curb. Speak of the devil. . . .
“You said you needed a painter,” she calls through the lowered car window.
“Yes, I suppose I did.” Sophia raises her voice.
“Cort does excellent work, all by hand. There wasn’t a speck of damage or a drop of paint to be found on a single one of my azaleas. You won’t find anyone better, Sophia.”
The painter hollers his thanks.
Lily waves and drives off.
Cort hands Sophia a business card.
Capshaw and Company it reads in addition to his name. House painting, custom remodeling and renovation. Quality service.
“If you like, you could call the historical society in town. I do a lot of preservation work for them. Actually it’s what I prefer, but circumstances being what they are, you know, with the economy. . . .”
Sophia angles her gaze toward the house.
“Why don’t I work up a bid and leave it with you along with a list of references? In case you change your mind,” he adds.
She hesitates, feeling herself frown even as she agrees. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.” She isn’t sure what prompts her. His talk of hard times, perhaps, her inclination to be helpful.
She asks how long the job will take, “Assuming I accept your bid,” she cautions.
He paces the drive, eye to the roofline. “A couple of weeks, if the weather holds, which this time of year. . . .”
She nods. He could mean because it’s the tag-end of hurricane season, or perhaps he’s referring to the vagaries of south Texas weather in general.
A pause falls. One heartbeat’s worth of silence is followed by two and three. A hot wind scoots a swirl of sun-dried leaves along the driveway, scattering them over the grass where it verges on the concrete.
Sophia lifts her hand indicating the iron-railed steps she had, minutes ago, descended. “I have an office upstairs. People coming and going.
Will they have access?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll use a ladder over here instead of scaffolding. It’ll take up less room.”
“I’m keeping a limited schedule of appointments at present.”
“That’s understandable, considering your recent loss.”
“I’m a psychologist.”
“I know,” he tells her. “I know who you are.”
Their glances clash. His look is searching as if he’s waiting for Sophia to recognize him. Should she?
“Two years ago,” the painter says, “I followed Jody Doaks’ trial; you were interviewed on TV. The story was big news.”
Sophia shifts her glance, thoroughly regretting now that she has encouraged him. What is it about appearing on television that causes perfect strangers to assume you welcome their attention? In the months since the trial she has been approached in the grocery store and the dentist’s office; people have followed her across parking lots, argued with her over the median at the gas pump. Once, a woman blocked Sophia’s exit from the ladies room at the mall threatening to hold her there until she agreed to recant the testimony she’d given on Jody’s behalf. The woman had ranted that Sophia was the devil incarnate. If only, Sophia had thought. She would have whipped out her pitchfork and prodded the woman in her ample behind.
“I’m against the death penalty, too,” the painter says, assuming, erroneously, that Sophia shares his opinion, when, in all honesty, she isn’t certain. “I don’t think it works as a deterrent to anything other than our humanity, do you? Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I think Doaks should ever get out.”
Sophia thinks of Jody. Poor demented, pathological Jody. Charming in the extreme. A baby-faced man who called his sister Momma because she’d raised him. A man who professed to love children, but who, in actuality, loved having sex with children. When the police searched the farm where Jody lived, they turned up the bodies of eight children buried John Wayne Gacy style in a crawl space under an old shed on the property. Jody had given Sophia this detail along with others that were more horrifying when he’d broken down during his third session with her in as many days. She is still uncertain how she managed to stay calm, handing him tissues to dry his copious tears, while he confessed he was doing things, hideous things to children, and he couldn’t stop. Sensing there was more, Sophia had prodded him very carefully and gotten him to confide in her about three-year-old Benny Chu, who at that very moment had been locked inside a room of Jody’s house. Jody hadn’t cleared the driveway before Sophia called the police.
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