by Ann McMan
She turned into the potholed lot at Osborne’s and navigated her patrol car around mud puddles that likely concealed how deep the craters in the broken pavement were. It didn’t take her long to spot the car, an old Buick LeSabre with more primer than paint, and South Carolina tags. Charlie instinctively checked the renewal sticker in the lower right corner of the tag. May. Manfred’s car was nearly three months past due for inspection.
That figured.
She pulled past the car and made a full circuit around the motel before parking.
She got out and walked into the office to ask the desk attendant which room Manfred Davis was staying in. She noticed that the sign advertising room rates and checkout times was written in both English and Spanish.
The attendant looked at her impassively and offered no resistance to her query.
“Room 8,” he told her, before immediately returning his attention to a rerun of Star Trek that was playing on the tiny TV set in what passed for the motel’s lobby.
Charlie thanked him and headed outside. She walked to room 8 and hesitated only a moment before knocking on the door.
She heard a man on the other side clear his throat and the sound of the chain lock on the door being unfastened. Then the metal door creaked open, and her father stood before her.
Charlie was stunned by the change in him. He’d lost a ton of weight and his hair—what was left of it—had gone nearly gray. He looked gaunt and stooped over. His skin had an unhealthy pallor. Even his eyes, which once had blazed so hotly with anger, looked pale and milky.
He looked old and sick.
But Charlie knew better than to trust him.
He didn’t speak, but just stood there, holding the door open with a bony hand. Charlie thought he was staring at her with something like uncertainty. She saw his eyes take in her uniform and linger over the gun holstered at her hip.
She decided to break the stalemate. “You wanted to see me?”
“Charlene,” he said. That was it. It was like he was trying the name out for the first time.
“It’s Charlie,” she corrected him. “Nobody calls me that anymore.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“You came by my house. Why did you want to see me?”
He continued to regard her with that milky, uncertain gaze. “I come back here, Char—” he stopped himself, “Charlie, because I want to make amends for the ways I done wrong by you.”
Charlie cut him off. “It’s too late for that. We have nothing to say to each other.”
“I traveled a long way to get here. Longer’n you know. At least hear me out?”
Charlie wanted nothing more than to give him a ticket for his expired license plate, and drive the hell away from that ungodly place. But she didn’t. She didn’t know what made her keep standing there.
“All right. I’ll listen.” She stepped back from the door. “Come outside and we can go to that picnic table over there. Then you can be on your way.”
“Fair enough.” He retrieved a room key and met her outside.
Charlie led the way to a battered table covered with warped boards that were dotted with cigarette burns. Manfred claimed a seat but Charlie remained standing.
“Go ahead,” Charlie told him. “Say your piece.”
“I don’t blame you for bein’ finished with me. I should’a never beat you like I did. I had the devil inside me, and I know I did wrong.”
Charlie made no reply. He continued.
“When Sheriff Martin run me outta town, he told me I was halfway down a path to hell, and I owed thanks to God that he didn’t kill me with his own hands. I never forgot them words. My cousin in Cheraw helped me get a job in the airbag plant. He was always a good man, and he didn’t put up with no kinda hijinks from me. No drinkin’. No women. Not even a pack of smokes. That’s when I met Glenadine, a widow woman who works as a bookkeeper at the Buick dealership in town. She got me goin’ with her to services at the Church of God. It wadn’t long before I found Christ, and repented of my sins. I turned away from my evil path. And me’n Glenadine and her two young’uns have a new life together, sanctified by God’s love and washed in the blood of His forgiveness. That’s why I come back here to find you.”
Charlie wasn’t sure what to make of his story. “When did all this happen?”
“’Bout nine years ago. I been a changed man, Char—Charlie. I come here to ask for your forgiveness.”
“You say you found Christ nine years ago?”
“That’s right.”
“But it took you nine years to come apologize to me?”
Manfred didn’t reply.
“You have to admit, that doesn’t sound like you cared very much about apologizing for putting me in the hospital and ruining Jimmie’s life.”
“I didn’t have nothin’ to do with what them folks did to her.”
That was the first familiar thing he’d said to her—shifting blame for his actions onto someone else.
“Maybe not directly. But you caused her as much pain as you did me. And for that, I can never forgive you.”
“I’m here to help you find the same release from sin that I found. I want to show you that God can forgive you for your sins just like He did mine.”
“Really? And what sins might those be . . . father?”
“I seen that doe-eyed little girl at your house. I heard from folks in town that you’re still carrying on in them same perverted ways that are an abomination to God. But I’m here to tell you that you can turn away from that poison, Charlene. You can ask Christ to forgive you and cleanse your soul of them unholy passions.”
Charlie had heard enough. Manfred’s reference to Roma Jean made her see red.
“How dare you come back here under the pretense of asking forgiveness for your failure as a father, just as an excuse to falsely accuse me?” He started to argue, but Charlie held up a hand to stop him. “We have nothing more to say to each other. And if you ever come near me—or Roma Jean—again, I’ll kill you myself. This conversation is over.”
Charlie left him sitting there and stormed back to her patrol car. Before she drove out of the parking lot, she slowed to lower her window and call out to him.
“And get your goddamn car inspected or I’ll have it towed.”
◊ ◊ ◊
When Maddie included Lizzy on their Friday night dinner invitation, she’d asked Lizzy if she’d be willing to pick Avi up at the Riverside Inn, where she was staying while she scoured the area for more suitable digs she could use on the days she planned to hold office hours at Maddie’s clinic. If their arrangement became permanent, she’d look for a longer-term housing solution. In the meantime, however, although the drive to and from Roanoke was doable, it wasn’t a commute Avi was eager to make on a continuing basis. Besides, she explained, her locum at the practice in Roanoke was ending in a few months, and she’d need a quasi-permanent place to live while she established a practice locally.
The inn was directly on Lizzy’s route to Maddie’s farm, so it had been an easy enough request to agree to. Avi had been waiting outside when Lizzy turned in at the entrance to the inn. Lizzy was struck again by the uniqueness of her appearance. Avi was wearing another stylish ensemble, every bit as subtly chic and androgynous as the outfit she’d worn the day before. Her olive-toned skin and glossy, short black hair gave her a unique air. Not European, exactly—but certainly cosmopolitan. She’d definitely be a standout in any Jericho context.
But Lizzy figured Avi would probably be a standout in any setting. There was just something intriguing about her. And that extended as much to her air as it did to her presentation.
Lizzy chided herself for being so provincial. She’d never have thought twice about someone like Avi if they’d crossed paths in Nashville. But the truth was, she’d never crossed paths with anyone who provoked her interest quite like Avi did. She was looking forward to this chance to get to know the psychologist a bit better.
Probably because I need he
r expertise . . . professionally.
Lizzy stopped the car so Avi could hop in beside her.
“I hope you weren’t waiting long?” she asked.
“Nah.” Avi snapped her seatbelt into place. “Whatever was cooking in there smelled too tempting. I figured I was safer waiting outside.”
“I don’t blame you. Michael is a fantastic chef.”
“That’s what I’ve heard. I know that breakfast this morning was amazing.”
Lizzy slowly exited the inn parking lot and merged onto the main road. “Why not just stay here, then? Instead of renting someplace?”
“I can’t deny that I haven’t thought about it—seriously. But I think it would be too hard on my boyish figure.”
Lizzy smiled. “It doesn’t look to me like you have any problems staying in shape.”
“Ah, but you don’t know what all manner of excess lurks beneath these generously proportioned clothes.”
“I’ll have to warn you that healthful dining options are limited in this community.”
“So I gathered. Maddie is hardly the most reliable guide to enlist for a roster of acceptable options.”
“Hardly.” Lizzy thought about Avi’s dilemma. “Are you vegetarian? Vegan? Pescatarian?”
“Why do you ask? Do I seem some like some kind of ‘arian’ to you?”
Lizzy glanced over at her, suddenly worried she’d made some kind of misstep. But Avi was regarding her with a look of amusement.
“No,” Lizzy explained. “I just wanted to try and suss out your tastes so I could suggest some dining options.”
“Well, the answer to your question is no, no and a big no. My family is Persian, and we eat everything—usually in massive quantities. I was raised in Minneapolis, and my parents and all three of my regrettable siblings still live there.”
“How on earth did you end up in Roanoke?”
“Probably via the same kind of circuitous route that landed you here. After grad school, I got a residency in Richmond. That led to a job in Charlottesville. Then contacts in Charlottesville connected me with a shot at doing a two-year locum in Roanoke. And wonder of wonders, I fell head-over-heels in love with this area. I’d like nothing more than to find a way to stay here permanently—even if that means I have to subsist on a steady diet of cheese grits and ham gravy. And lord knows, there are plenty of kids who need a hand up.” Avi chuckled. “I’m kidding about the cheese grits, actually . . . but I’m dead serious about the ham gravy. That information, alone, would be enough to put my maternal grandmother into an early grave.”
“She hates gravy?” Lizzy asked.
“No, she’s orthodox. A Jew,” Avi added. “We’re Jewish. At least, they are. I’m not too sure what I am. I’ve decided that I like to keep them guessing. It makes holidays in the Twin Cities a lot of fun.”
“Well, your secret is safe with me. I promise not to tell anyone about your unholy passion for ham gravy.”
Avi beamed at her. “I knew we’d get along just fine.”
“That must be why Maddie asked me to pick you up tonight.”
“Nah. The reason is way less complicated.”
Avi’s pronouncement piqued Lizzy’s interest. “What makes you say that?”
“Because hitching a ride with you was my idea.”
“Your idea? Why? I mean . . . it’s not like I don’t possess enviable driving skills, or anything.”
“I know. But I figured if we’re gonna be bunking together, so to speak, we might as well try to get to know each other a bit. Maddie told me about her offer to make you a partner in the clinic. I figure you’d be nuts not to jump at it, so it seemed I should get a head start sucking up to you right off the bat.”
Lizzy was initially surprised that Maddie, who normally was the most taciturn person on the planet, would share her plans for the clinic with Avi. But since Avi was going to be working with them in some continuing capacity, she supposed it made sense.
She must’ve stayed quiet for too long. Avi laid a tentative hand on her arm.
“Forgive me if I spoke out of turn. I have a tendency to let my mouth roar fifty paces ahead of decorum.”
“No,” Lizzy assured her. “It’s completely fine. Of course she’d tell you about her plans.”
“Her plans?” Avi asked. “Dare I ask about your plans—or is that too personal?”
“It’s not too personal. My plans are . . . in flux right now.”
“That’s the thing about flux. It can be good, and still totally muck up the works.”
“Kind of like ham gravy?” Lizzy asked wryly.
“Exactly like ham gravy. Who knew a byproduct of cured meat and fat could lead to so much consternation?”
“Consternation is certainly one word for it.”
“And what’s another word for it?” Avi asked.
Avi was smooth, all right. Lizzy figured she must be one hell of a shrink. “Want the vernacular?” she asked.
“Of course.”
They’d reached the turnoff for the lane that led to Maddie’s farm. Lizzy slowed the car and turned on the blinker before shooting a nervous glance at Avi.
“Clusterfuck?”
Avi laughed the rest of the way to the house.
◊ ◊ ◊
Dinner was a fairly raucous affair, mostly because Henry seemed to emerge from his funk and chattered nonstop throughout most of the meal. Syd was amazed by his transformation and wondered if it came about because Dorothy was spending the night, or because Avi seemed to have such an immediate rapport with both of the children. Whatever led to the change, she was grateful for it and hoped it would endure past the evening.
Henry claimed a seat beside Lizzy and did his best to be sure she was never without mini-biscuits, which Syd, grudgingly, had consented to make. They weren’t even halfway through the meal before Lizzy had amassed a small army of them. They rimmed her plate like soldiers laying siege to the pot roast.
In truth, it wasn’t really pot roast, as Henry comprehended the dish. It was boeuf Bourguignon, and she’d started it last night. Her mother had sent her a first edition copy of Mastering The Art of French Cooking she’d found at a used bookstore, and Syd was dying to try out some of the recipes. Maddie questioned if the dish was appropriate to serve on a hot summer night, but Syd insisted.
“I want to cook something homey and welcoming. Most of the vegetables in the garden are well past prime time, and throwing something on the grill just doesn’t seem right for the occasion.”
“I don’t see why not. It isn’t like we’re going to be signing treaties or anything.”
“When have you ever turned down an opportunity to eat beef? Besides, if you question the appropriateness of a Julia Child dish, you wouldn’t understand the reasoning behind it.”
Maddie grumbled her response. “Why do you always retreat to that as a defense whenever you don’t have a reasonable explanation for something you’ve already decided to do?”
“Because it annoys you?”
“Very funny.”
But the dish had turned out wonderfully, and no one—including Maddie—complained about it being too hearty. Syd noted with smug pleasure that, for all her pious protestations, Maddie crowed over the bits of crispy bacon she’d garnished the dish with, and kept trying to sneak pieces of it out of Henry’s bowl whenever he was occupied passing more biscuits to Lizzy.
Running interference at this joint was a full-time job . . .
Avi was charming and affable. Syd liked her immediately. It was mesmerizing to watch how skillfully she navigated conversation with Dorothy. One thing was for certain: Dorothy was no pushover. It was obvious that the girl had perfected the art of saying little whenever it came to anything personal. She wasn’t ever rude—but she was very adept at deflecting questions or revealing too much.
But even Dorothy seemed to warm to Avi’s easy manners and playful discourse.
They’d decided to eat in the kitchen, thinking the more casual setting would def
use any ceremony that might truncate conversation between Avi and Dorothy. It seemed like a winning strategy. Even Lizzy seemed relatively at ease, which was a welcome response, given the seriousness of what all had landed on her plate . . . besides all those biscuits.
“Henry?” Syd cautioned him. “I think Lizzy has enough of those right now.”
Henry’s face fell. “But I don’t want her to run out.”
“I don’t think she’s in danger of running out any time soon, Sport,” Maddie added. “Are you, Lizzy?”
Lizzy promptly picked up one of the biscuits and took a healthy bite out of it. After swallowing, she put an arm around Henry and bent down to whisper. “How about we make a deal? I promise to tell you as soon as I think I need more reinforcements. Will that work?”
Henry actually blushed. “Okay.”
Avi reached over and claimed one of Lizzy’s biscuits. “Since you’ve just negotiated a steady supply stream, you probably won’t miss one of these.”
“I should make those things more often,” Syd muttered.
“You’ll get no arguments from me.” Maddie refilled all their wineglasses.
“Go easy on mine,” Lizzy warned her. “I’m driving.”
“Don’t worry.” Maddie topped her off, anyway. “It’s just a pinot and not very big. And Syd has major plans for some serious carb-loading with dessert.”
Lizzy looked across the table at Syd with an implied question.
“I made an apple cake. And we have some clotted cream.”
Avi’s eyes grew large. “No way.”
“Way. They should go together very well.”
Avi was ecstatic. “I haven’t had real clotted cream since . . . well. Since forever.”
“Then you’re in luck,” Syd explained. “And in the interest of full disclosure, I had nothing to do with the clotted cream. Dorothy made it.”
“Dorothy?” Avi looked at her with happy surprise. “Do tell.”
Dorothy shrugged. “It’s not hard. My mama used to make it. I found one of her recipes . . . someplace.”
Maddie was curious. “Have you ever made it for Mom?”
“Lots of times,” Dorothy explained. “She always says I shouldn’t, but then she eats most of it at one meal.”