Honey Belle nodded. She walked down the hall. Alone.
She wished Tess had come with her. Doing this by herself shouldn’t hurt. She wished Tripp was with her. Instead, she walked into the darkened room feeling desolate. The technician said, “Lie on your back. The lotion I use is a little cold.”
“Can I watch?” Honey Belle lifted her head and watched the screen as the technician moved the scope over her belly.
A few minutes later she saw the beating heart of her baby. Her own heart matched the rapid pulsations of the image on the screen.
Doctor Daniel entered the darkened room. “A healthy heart.”
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
The doctor leaned closer and pointed. “This shadow makes it difficult to tell. You’ll have to wait for the big reveal in about three and half months.”
The technician rubbed the lotion from Honey Belle’s belly and handed her a picture of the ultrasound. “Here’s your baby’s first picture.”
Honey Belle took the black-and-white photo. Her fingers trembled as she held it up and looked at a little blob that looked really like nothing—except for a beating heart on a screen that proved a new life was growing inside her. She couldn’t wait to show Tess. She wished her parents were alive so she could show them. She didn’t want to think about Tripp or his father.
When she walked back to the waiting room, Tess was there. Smiling. Honey Belle held up the picture.
“Boy or girl?”
“My question exactly, Aunt Tess.” Honey Belle held the photograph toward the light and pointed. “Dr. Daniel says I’ll have to wait until my little surprise package arrives to find out.”
Honey Belle’s face suddenly transformed to surprise, and her hands flew upward to clutch her stomach. “Oh.”
Tess moved to her niece’s side quickly. “What’s the matter?”
“The baby kicked really hard.” She massaged the swell of her abdomen, grinned sheepishly after a long moment, then captured Tess’s hand in hers. “Give me your hand.”
Tess frowned as if concentrating. She shook her head indicating she felt nothing. “Oh…oh, there it is, no more than a slight pressure against my fingertips.”
She lifted her eyes to Honey Belle and smiled. “Isn’t it wonderful to feel him move inside you?”
“It’s a bit scary to think I’m responsible for this little creature growing inside of me. Aunt Tess, I’ve seen what happens to a child whose only mistake in life is to be born in the wrong place at the wrong time. What if I’m not mother material?” She blinked fast to chase away the tears before they built up on her lashes.
Tess used fingers to lift Honey Belle’s chin. “Look me directly in the eyes, Honey Belle, and heed my words. You are…not…your mother. Do you understand?”
She looked at the compassion in her aunt’s eyes and wondered why her mother had been the exact opposite—like an evil twin born years later. “I do understand, Aunt Tess. You may need to remind me every once in awhile.”
Outside in the cold, walking to the car, Honey Belle felt invigorated. She noticed it all, every sound, the way the sun rays filtered through a hole in the darkening clouds overhead. Her senses had come alive.
She thought about the shock of seeing Judge Hartwell’s face on the news, and the anxiety it had caused her. She thought about the sleepless nights she’d experienced since coming to live with her aunt, the short temper during the daytime. Even yesterday she had doubted her future. The tension was gone now, every bit of it, replaced by the image of her baby’s beating heart, and she was glad of her new place in life.
She wrapped her arms around Tess and hugged her tight.
“My goodness, what’s this for?”
Honey Belle laughed. “I’m starved.”
“You hugged me because you’re starved?”
“I hugged you because everything suddenly seems to have righted itself in my universe.”
“In that case, let’s celebrate. What would you like to eat?”
“Fried chicken, a mountain of mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, and pecan pie.”
Tess cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure your stomach can handle all that grease?”
“Maybe…maybe not, but right now I’m hungry enough to eat a whole chicken—feathers and all.”
Honey Belle opened the car door and slid in.
Life had been a lot simpler a year ago. What was ahead, that was a whole other matter.
Chapter Eighteen
Honey Belle awoke sweaty and breathless in her bed, her head full of unfamiliar images—long dark corridors, the sound of a baby crying, and herself, confused and frightened and unable to change any of it.
She sat upright, disoriented, but only for a minute or two. She knew why the baby dream had visited her tonight.
All day Saturday, with Tess pulling her once-a-month twelve-hour shift, Honey Belle had been at loose ends and with nothing to keep herself occupied. She decided to explore the attic. She had expected to find nothing of value, certainly nothing that would cause her heart to miss a beat. She was wrong. The attic had yielded a treasure trove of mementos.
She’d fingered the intricate carvings on the frame of a floor-length mirror, a chair with a broken rocker, an old seamstress dress form, and stacks of National Geographic magazines.
Nothing startling. Nothing dramatic.
Kneeling on the dusty floor, Honey Belle tested the lock on a steamer trunk that bore scars from its travels. Surprised when it opened, she hesitated, feeling like an intruder. Then, allowing curiosity to get the better of her, she carefully fingered the neatly stored contents.
The crushed remains of an orchid corsage, wrapped in tissue paper. A clutch of blue ribbons that Tess had won in various high school events. Letters bundled together with a red ribbon, addressed to Tess and postmarked from England, their faded ink revealing they were from Mr. and Mrs. Kemp, Roger’s parents.
Recalling the emotions on her aunt’s face the night she’d shared the painful events of Africa, Honey Belle decided the contents were too personal. She could not intrude on words meant only for her aunt.
She tried on several old hats and couldn’t imagine women wearing such items. A lace-up corset caused her to grimace. She removed a shoebox, and when she set the lid aside, the contents yielded a little bit of surprise.
The box was filled with photographs, the white edges yellowed from age. Honey Belle lifted an old black-and-white of a man looking strong and handsome, with a charming smile. She turned the picture over and recognized Tess’s neat penmanship where she had written the name—Roger. It was dated 1953.
There were other photographs. Some with Tess in her nurse’s uniform, waving to someone off camera, others of her with three nuns, a few of native Africans, thatched huts, and several of Tess and Roger. They seemed so young. There were a few of Tess wearing maternity tops, and one especially poignant picture of Roger with his hand on Tess’s protruding belly.
The sight of those photos brought no particular emotions. As she picked them up, her fingers brushed against something soft, and when she saw it, the smile on her face froze.
With the same care one would give to a newborn baby, Honey Belle lifted the half-finished, cross-stitched birth announcement. It was such a small thing—too small to be framed or hung on a nursery wall.
She ran her finger over the once cheery colors, now faded with age, and the patterns of childishly simple icons meant for a baby boy.
Seeing the announcement caused her heart to lurch as she recalled Tess’s accounting of the Hutu rebels’ attack on the village and the deaths of her husband and son. Soiled, fading, the fabric sat in Honey Belle’s lap as a lasting reminder of Tess’s sad memories. The name of her son still stood out plainly. ROGER SCOTT. Roger for his grandfather and Scott for his father.
Only the boy hadn’t lived to carry the weighty, paternal pride of such an important name. He’d died, along with his father, on a scorching day in the African sun.
No
w in the darkness of her bedroom, Honey Belle’s hand fumbled for the bedside lamp. She squinted against the bright glare, shoving handfuls of tangled blonde hair out of her eyes so she could read the clock.
Her heart was no longer pounding, but with acrid bile in her throat and a bad case of heartburn, it would be impossible to get back to sleep.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and trundled to the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, she removed a bottle of antacids and popped two inside her mouth.
After rinsing her face, she returned to the bedroom and picked up the camera and the photo album Tess had bought her that afternoon at the mall.
She would do what Tess hadn’t been able to bring herself to do. She would keep a scrapbook complete with pictures for her child.
A kernel of an idea wiggled its way into Honey Belle’s thoughts. Perhaps it was the news report of Judge Hartwell announcing his candidacy for governor that spurred the notion. As she allowed the plan to grow, her enthusiasm grew with it. She didn’t resist the smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
The day would come, she knew, when her child would ask questions about his father. Until that day arrived, she would collect newspaper articles, pictures, any written information about Tripp, and place all of it inside the scrapbook. The Hartwells were a prestigious family. One day, just as with his father, Tripp’s face would grace the pages of newspapers and magazines.
And when the child, boy or girl, was old enough to completely understand, she would show him the copy of the check his grandfather had written to force her out of town. She would show the incriminating pictures and explain how Judge Hartwell had planned to use them against her.
Doubt crept in to replace enthusiasm. What if the scheme backfired? What if the child blamed her? Could she handle the rejection?
Her emotions broke and she swiped away tears with the back of her hand.
She placed the camera and album on the nightstand next to her bed. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to focus on an image of the one nearest her heart—the baby. What he would feel like in her arms. His sweet smell, the downy-softness of his hair, the whisper of his breath as she held him against her neck. Surely, there wasn’t anything more heavenly?
As if responding to his mother’s emotions, the baby moved in its warm nest. Honey Belle’s hand went to her belly. She wondered if it was true that babies could hear from inside the womb. In a soft voice, she crooned, “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird—”
Chapter Nineteen
Sweat dribbled between Tripp Hartwell’s shoulder blades as he stood alongside the station wagon packed with enough belongings to last him for the duration of his time at Harvard. Not even noon, and the August sun was relentless.
He kissed his mother on the cheek as she clung to him. “Don’t cry, Mother. It isn’t like you haven’t seen me off to college before.”
Mary Alice rested her hand on his chest. “You promise you’ll be home for Christmas?”
He clasped her blue-veined fingers as he moved her toward his father. Tripp smiled. “Don’t put the angel on top of the tree until I get home.”
That small remark seemed to pacify her. “La sakes, I’ve almost forgotten. Will you bring your young lady with you?”
“What young lady, Mother?”
“The one whose family is related to sharecroppers from Tennessee.”
Tripp had given up explaining to her that Honey Belle and her parents had never lived anywhere other than South Carolina. At the current rate of deterioration, he worried, the dementia might completely claim his mother’s mind before she reached her next birthday.
With silent eyes he sought help from his father. Judge Hartwell’s nod was barely noticeable. “Dry your tears, Mary Alice. It’s time for our boy to get on down the road. After all, it’s a long drive to Massachusetts.”
Tripp felt the reluctance in his mother as he handed her over to his father. The sorrow in her eyes cut straight to Tripp’s heart. “You have the sandwiches Pearlie Mae made for you?”
“I do, Mother, and the thermos of iced tea, and the brownies.” He patted his pocket. “And I have plenty of money for gas and lodging.”
His father offered a smile. “Son, you’ve acted a bit stand-offish lately. I hope you still don’t think I had something to do with the young lady and her family leaving town.”
Tripp watched the expression on his father’s face. Clearly, the Judge was being indulgent. Tripp spun on his heel, reaching for the door handle. His throat constricted with doubt, then anger. He thought of many things to say, but not in front of his mother.
He opened the car door and slid behind the steering wheel. “I’ll call as soon as I get to the campus and settle in.”
As he waved a final goodbye and pointed the station wagon down the long oak-shrouded drive to the highway, there was little doubt in his mind that his father had played a pivotal role in Honey Belle’s sudden disappearance. Days after confronting the Judge, Tripp had telephoned Charlie Nichols, the detective who sometimes did investigative work for his uncles and their law firm.
He checked the speedometer, and for a while focused on the traffic. Settling into the smooth rhythm of driving, he mentally replayed the conversation with Detective Charlie Nichols.
“Charlie, this is Tripp Hartwell.”
“How ya doing, kid? Hear you’re off to that fancy lawyer school pretty soon.”
Wanting to forego the small talk, Tripp pushed on. “Listen, Charlie, I’ll come straight to why I called you.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“Has my father ever mentioned a young lady by the name of Honey Belle Garrett?”
Silence.
“You there, Charlie?”
“Uh, yeah, I was trying to, uh, recall the name. Can’t say I have any recollection.”
“Think hard, Charlie. Honey Belle isn’t a name you would likely forget.”
“Sweet name, sure ’nuf. What’s your interest in the little lady?”
“She’s the girl I planned to marry. Now she’s missing.”
“Missing? You mean as in—kidnapped?”
Even now, recalling the conversation, Tripp’s stomach clenched like a fist in the pit of his stomach.
“No, Charlie. I mean she and her parents have moved, and without telling me. She quit her job without notice. She didn’t even tell her best friend she was leaving.”
“Ah, well, there ya have it. Goes without saying, just can’t put much stock in folks these days. Maybe she got cold feet and the only way she knew to break it off with you was to blow town.”
Tripp could almost envision Charlie Nichols sitting at his desk, feet propped up and a glass of bourbon in one hand. The man had the appearance of an overstuffed turkey. Nonetheless, Tripp knew Charlie Nichols was a good detective and loyal to his father.
“What about Uncle Jake, Charlie? Maybe he asked, on my father’s behalf?”
Silence.
“Charlie?”
“Listen, kid, like I said, I, uh…don’t know nothing ’bout your girl. Now if you want me to do some nosing around, gimme her address and I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Never mind, Charlie. I’ve obviously hit a dead end.”
“Buck up, kid. Tons of beautiful dames where you’re headed. All of ’em smart, and rich…uh…at least that’s what I heard.”
Tripp had wanted to pursue the conversation further, especially homing in on the word rich. Before he’d had time to respond, Charlie said, “Uh, listen, kid, I gotta go. A client just came in. Sorry I don’t know nothing ’bout your girl.”
“Thanks anyhow, Charlie.”
“Yeah, sure, kid. Anytime.”
The squealing of air brakes jerked Tripp back to the present. Through the windshield, he stared at gray smoke boiling from the rear tires of the semi-truck ahead of him. Skidding tires from other vehicles screeched against the pavement.
Tripp braked hard to keep from plowing i
nto the rear of the truck. His knuckles whitened from his grip on the station wagon’s steering wheel. His body tensed and then puddled with relief as the wagon stopped inches from giant red letters that had We Plant ’Em At Dirt Cheap Nurseries printed on the semi-trailer’s double doors.
Seconds later, his heart slammed against his chest as the grinding crunch of metal against metal, coming somewhere from the line of cars behind his station wagon, reached his ears.
Tripp leaped from the station wagon and raced down the highway’s right-of-way shoulder to the three-car pile-up. With reassurances from all parties that no one was seriously injured, he stifled a huge sigh, jammed his hands inside his pockets, and returned to his car.
While he waited for the tow trucks and the State Highway Patrol to arrive and clear the highway, he rolled down the window for some air and pulled one of Pearlie Mae’s famous pecan-chicken-salad sandwiches from the sack and washed it down with sweet ice tea from the thermos.
The sandwich, the tea, and the summer heat worked together to produce a drug-like euphoria. Tripp fought to keep his eyes open. He glanced at his watch. With luck and barring no more accidents, he’d spend the night in Virginia.
He didn’t remember leaning against the headrest or closing his eyes.
Honey Belle stood in his arms. The subtleness of her perfume aroused him. He savored the sweet taste of her lips, her body responding to his, she—
He reacted with a jerk at the roar of the semi’s engine and the squeal of air releasing from the truck’s hydraulics. Using the heels of his hands, he scrubbed the drowsiness from his eyes.
After inching through the traffic congestion and then crossing the state line into Virginia, he passed through a long corridor of rolling land. It was woodsy and wild and reminded him of the wonderful places his Uncle Carson had taken him camping. Tripp chuckled aloud. Carson Calhoun was the black sheep of his mother’s family. He’d stayed true to his roots and preferred wearing bib overalls and plowing the dirt and planting the land to that of wearing a suit and tie and hobnobbing with the politicos on Capitol Hill. Yet Carson had taken a spoiled rich snob of a city boy to go tromping through the woods, searching for arrowheads, teaching him about the constellations. To Tripp it was like discovering a whole new world—like visiting the backside of the moon.
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