The first drawer contained lace and silk panties. I smiled wryly at the contrast to my utilitarian cotton panties straight off the shelf from Walmart. And so it continued as I went through all the drawers, finding more and more expensive, first-class items. I’d half expected to find my copy of the will tucked in with her lingerie or hiding between folded sweaters, but there was nothing.
I proceeded to the master bathroom, which smelled of lilies and lavender. On a dressing table, she had a variety of cosmetics spread out. All of them name brand, of course. I picked up a tube of red lipstick, painted it on my lips, and then preened in front of the mirror.
The sophisticated color made me appear more adult and the resemblance to my mother even more striking. She’d favored red lipstick and a sophisticated perfume that smelled like magnolias.
If only Mom were still alive.
If only Ainsley were still alive.
My reflection blurred from my tears, and I grabbed a wad of tissue and angrily swiped the lipstick off my lips. Don’t look back. That was my steadying mantra when the past threatened to smother the present. And if I couldn’t manage that by the sheer force of my willpower, there was always a little pill with my name on it.
Abruptly, I left the bathroom and headed back downstairs to check on Dad. He was in the kitchen, pouring a glass of iced tea.
“Finished your nap, I see.”
He startled, and tea sloshed over the side of his glass. His usual glare morphed into dismay.
“Dad?”
He took a step backward, and the drink crashed to the floor. “Hy? Wh-what? How?”
“No, it’s me. Violet, your daughter.” I grabbed a dish towel and began mopping up the spilled tea and shards of glass. I saw he was barefoot, so I guided him by the arm, steering him clear of the mess. “Go back in the den while I clean this up. I’ll fix you another glass.”
His face flushed an angry red, and his eyes narrowed to mean slits.
I recognized that look. My stomach flipped in the old way I remembered from childhood.
“You ruin everything,” he accused. “Why, I ought to—”
“Calm down,” I ordered in a firm voice, pushing down the fear of my little-girl self that wanted nothing more than to run away to my room.
“Don’t you tell me what to do, Hy. If I wanna—”
“I’m Violet. Your daughter.” I pointed at the broken glass on the floor. “Do you want to slash your bare feet open? Huh?”
He glanced down, and the fire went out of his eyes. I drew a deep breath and rose to my feet. “Go on now,” I said.
Thankfully, he became docile and ambled to the den. I returned to the kitchen. What had set him off this time? Sudden realization struck. The lipstick must have left a stain, and he’d noticed my resemblance to Mom. He must have thought she’d somehow returned from the dead.
I finished cleaning the floor and idly picked up one of a dozen mason jars Delaney had sitting on the counter. Each contained crushed dried herbs from which she often made tea. I opened the jar lid and inhaled the bracing green scent of rosemary. In spite of her crappy moods and domineering attitude, I still wished Delaney loved me half as much as she loved her garden.
Chapter 10
HYACINTH
Twenty-five years earlier
Anniversary-cake frosting stuck to the roof of my mouth like sugared glue, tasteless and gooey. I took an unladylike gulp of iced tea to wash it down and then set my plate on the coffee table.
“Is that all you’re going to eat?” Mrs. Henderson asked, brow raised. Her tone, as always, implied some subtle wrongdoing on my part.
“Watching my figure,” I lied. My lips involuntarily curled upward at the irony.
“Seems like just yesterday you and Parker got married,” my mother-in-law replied, taking another bite of cake.
Seemed more like ten years instead of two. I glanced at Parker, who sat in his leather recliner, sipping a double bourbon and Coke. He’d wait until his mother left before he started the serious guzzling. He raised his crystal tumbler an inch. “Another year of wedded bliss,” he muttered.
Per her usual fashion, Mrs. Henderson turned the conversation around to herself, launching into tales of her country club set. Who was traveling where, who was rumored to be in financial trouble, who was seeing whom. People I couldn’t care less about.
All I cared about was Boone.
Heat flushed through my body in a fever as I recalled our last rendezvous. Boone’s expert hands and lips touching and probing me, thrilling me in a way Parker’s drunken fumbles no longer did.
Never thought I’d be the kind of woman who cheated on her husband. But then, I’d never thought Parker would turn into a mean alcoholic either. His descent had been rapid, but looking back, the warning signs had been there all along, and I’d blindly overlooked them.
“Excuse me,” I murmured, picking up the plate of sliced cake.
Neither acknowledged me as I went to the kitchen and began scraping the rest of the leftover cake into the trash can. It was nothing but garbage to me, same as my marriage.
Delaney was suddenly beside me, her elbows jutting into my side.
“Stop. I want another piece.”
I half turned, blocking her grab. “No,” I said firmly.
Her lips flattened, and her eyes turned cold, the way they always did when she didn’t get her way. “Why not?” she demanded.
“Because you’ve already had two pieces, and sugar keeps you awake at bedtime.”
“I’m telling Dad you’re being mean to me,” she threatened.
I’d had it. Sure, I could blame my annoyance on hormones, but in a flash, I realized I couldn’t take it anymore. Not my farcical marriage, and certainly not this ungrateful, manipulative stepdaughter. I slammed the trash can lid shut. I’m telling Dad. How many times had I heard this same refrain?
“Go right ahead,” I snapped, barking out an angry laugh. “Nothing he can do about it now, is there? The cake is all gone.”
Delaney’s eyes widened at my unexpected defiance. “You’ll be sorry.”
Like hell I would. I watched as she marched into the den, complaining loudly. “Mom’s being mean to me.” Her voice hitched, and I pictured Delaney’s fake look of hurt, the pouting lips and stooped shoulders. “All I wanted was a piece of cake, and she said no and then threw it away.”
“Hy,” Parker called out. “Why the hell did you do that?”
He always took her side. Sighing, I entered the den and folded my arms. “She’d already had two pieces.”
“Nuh-uh. Only one,” Delaney lied, with a pathetic swipe at her tearless eyes.
“Really, Hyacinth,” Mrs. Henderson said with an imperious lift of her fat chin. “Was it necessary to—”
“Yes,” I interrupted. “You two spoil Delaney rotten, and you’re not doing her any favors.”
My mother-in-law’s outraged gasp didn’t bother me in the least. She’d never warmly embraced me into her son’s life—instead, she idolized Alyssa, Parker’s first wife, who had died of cancer years ago.
What did concern me was Parker’s reaction. He carefully set down the tumbler and rose, his eyes flashing a warning. I stood my ground. Would he really hit me in front of his mother? I didn’t think so. And if he did—well, let Mrs. Henderson see her son in his true colors.
He stood an arm’s length away. “Apologize to Delaney.”
“For what? I haven’t done anything wrong. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to run to the pharmacy before it closes.” I grabbed my purse from the chair and turned toward the door, half expecting him to grab my arm.
He didn’t.
I walked out the front door and scurried to my car like a prisoner set free on furlough. Once in, I locked the doors and headed straight to the Dixie One-Stop to make my call. I hadn’t seen Boone in two weeks. He’d been either busy with work or busy at home. Tonight, he’d have to make time for me.
At the general store, I hurried to the pay pho
ne in the left front corner and dropped a dime. A male voice answered, but it wasn’t Boone. One of his sons, then. It could have been worse—his wife might have answered. And if she had? I was past caring. Once I had Boone on the line, I hurriedly told him to come meet me straightaway.
My heart raced the whole car ride to our spot. I was near to burst with my secret. Finally, I pulled onto the lonesome back road.
Boone stood by the old oak tree, his dark-blue sedan almost hidden behind a copse of pines, our place for spur-of-the-moment trysts. Soon, we wouldn’t have to hide in dark, out-of-the-way corners.
I got out of the car and ran to him, throwing my arms around his neck, and cuddled into his broad chest. He waited a heartbeat and then stepped back. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing. Everything. I can’t live with the two of them another minute. Parker’s abusive, and Delaney deliberately causes trouble between us and makes it all worse.”
“That’s nothing new. I’ve encouraged you to divorce your husband many times. You aren’t safe,” he said gently. “Still, I’ve never seen you this upset before.”
His brown eyes were kind and warm. How could I bear another minute of Parker when I loved Boone? He’d shown me what true love could be between a man and woman. Now I couldn’t bear to endure a loveless marriage. Boone had to feel the same.
“Let’s run away together,” I said rashly. “Leave this place and never look back.”
Something I couldn’t identify flickered in his eyes. My throat tightened as I waited for his response.
“Run away,” he said slowly, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. “We’re not carefree teenagers, Hy.”
“It’s not too late for us,” I insisted. “Why should we both stay in loveless marriages?”
“I have kids. A job. I can’t walk away from all that.”
“You can get another job. Have your children on weekends. People divorce all the time.”
“I’m not the weekend-dad kind of guy.”
Oh, but you’re the kind of guy who fools around on his wife. I didn’t say it out loud, but something of my sentiment must have shown.
“I don’t expect you to believe me, but you’re the only woman I’ve been with since I got married. It was wrong of me. I see that now. You know how guilty I’ve felt this whole time.”
A buzzing pounded inside my brain. He’d picked a hell of a time to develop a sense of guilt. “Are you—breaking up with me?”
Boone hadn’t been busy these past two weeks. He’d had a sudden attack of conscience.
“I’m sorry, Hy.” Awkwardly, he patted my shoulder. “You’re special to me. You know that. And I’ll probably always regret not starting a new life with you. But—”
“You bastard.” I slapped his hand away and took a step back. “I thought you loved me.”
His eyes held pain, but determination too. “I did. I do, but it’s not enough.”
The buzzing in my head grew louder, a rumbling that shook the base of my world. I rubbed my temples. I had loved him so much, had trusted he would always be there for me, no matter the circumstances. Now what the hell was I going to do?
“Hy, stop it. What we had was great, but we need to move on with our own lives. Forget”—he pointed between us—“whatever this was. Forget me.”
I placed a hand on my stomach. “Forget?” I spat out a harsh laugh, wanting to hurt him as much as he’d hurt me. “Not hardly. I’m pregnant, Boone. With your child.”
His face turned ashen. “How do you know it’s not Parker’s?”
“Because you’re the only one I’ve slept with in the past six weeks.”
Boone dropped his face in his hands momentarily and then took a deep breath, facing me. “Under the circumstances, you don’t want to keep it, do you?”
I’d thought I knew pain in all its violent and subtle forms, but nothing could have prepared me for this moment. I turned away and stumbled toward my car.
“Hyacinth,” he called out. “Wait. What are you going to do?”
I squared my shoulders and faced him one last time. I still had my pride, my dignity, and that counted for something. “Have this baby. Don’t worry; I won’t ask you for anything.”
“At least let me quietly pay you child support.”
I got in the car, slammed the door shut, and then rolled down the window. “I don’t want a damn thing from you.”
I drove away, trying to quell my panic. I wasn’t the first woman who’d ever been in this situation. I’d try to make it work with Parker again, at least until the baby came. The man was so tipsy in the evenings he wouldn’t remember if we’d made love or not the past few weeks. I patted my stomach, vowing to protect my unborn child.
The baby was all I had left of Boone.
Chapter 11
VIOLET
Present day
“Next.”
The bank employee gave me a welcoming smile, and I followed her to the desk in the main lobby. I would have liked more privacy but was too intimidated to ask for it. I’d arrived as soon as the bank had opened at nine o’clock and had only had to wait for one other person to complete their business.
The banker looked to be in her midthirties and wore a navy suit and matching wedge pumps that clicked smartly on the linoleum. She motioned for me to have a seat and then went around her large, gleaming desk and sat across from me, her hands folded on the paper ledger. “How may I help you today?” she asked crisply, coming directly to the point.
“My name’s Violet Henderson. It’s my understanding that my mother, the deceased Hyacinth Henderson, set up a trust fund account for me at this bank. I’d like to view the balance.”
“I’ll need your identification, please.”
“Of course.” I dug my wallet out of my purse and handed her my driver’s license.
She turned to the computer screen and clicked away on the keyboard. I held my breath. After a few moments, her lips pursed, and her fingers paused. “There’s been no activity on this account in years,” she said.
I hoped that was a good sign. “Could you provide me a printout of the balance?”
“Certainly.”
A few more taps on the keyboard, and the printer whirred. She picked up a piece of paper and pushed it across the desk.
This had been easier than I had imagined. Eagerly, I glanced down at the numbers. My eyes scanned the top line and drifted downward, noting there had been a large number of withdrawals. At the ending balance amount, I drew a sharp breath.
One hundred eighteen dollars and thirty-five cents.
I felt dizzy. The numbers grew blurry and my eyes unable to focus. I was conscious of the banker watching me. Fear clogged my throat.
“But . . .” My lips felt numb and dry. “There must be a mistake,” I sputtered. “I’ve never withdrawn any money.”
She turned back to the screen and clicked away again. “There’s another name on the account, Delaney Henderson. It appears that she has legal authority to draw from this account.”
“I never gave permission for that.” This was the worst possible news, my biggest fear confirmed.
Her face drew up in concern. “Let me have the manager look into this. One moment, please.” She printed out more papers, gathered them together, and rose, towering above me. “Excuse me.”
Discreetly, I removed the blue glass chip from my purse and rubbed it between my thumb and index finger. Even though I’d taken my antianxiety meds before coming, my heart still raced. Outside the lobby window, cars drove past, and I imagined the drivers as everyday folks carrying out everyday business in a comforting routine. Lucky bastards.
This was taking forever.
There went my dreams of having the cash to start a new life. I crossed my legs, and my right foot bobbed up and down.
“Ms. Henderson?”
I swiftly jumped to my feet and faced an elderly gentleman with silver hair, dressed impeccably in a gray pinstriped suit. His smile was gentle and his
blue eyes warm. He looked like the kind uncle I’d always wished I had.
“Come to my office, and we’ll get this sorted straightaway.”
“Yes, sir.”
I slipped the blue chip back into my purse and followed him. Privacy at last. His office was huge, and his massive desk was situated in front of a large bank of windows. My serviceable but shabby shoes sank into the deep plush carpet. Everything—desk and shelves and cabinets—gleamed a dark-walnut color, and framed certificates of achievement dotted the walls. In short, everything one would expect in a bank manager’s office to provide the comforting illusion of safety and stability.
“Earl Tottle,” he said, holding out his right hand.
I shook it. His grip was firm and reassuring.
“I knew your mother. So sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, sir. It was a long time ago.”
I settled into the dark-brown leather chair across from his desk and kept my purse in my lap. Placing it on the floor would be disrespectful of the money it housed. Grandma had always warned that setting a pocketbook on the floor meant you’d go broke. Today I was especially heedful of her warning as I waited expectantly.
Mr. Tottle sat down and opened the file on his pristine desk. “Your mother left forty-five thousand dollars in a trust fund for you. At the time this was set up, you were a minor. As such, your father had control of the money until you turned twenty-one. The terms of the trust did specify that any money needed for your . . . special care . . . could be withdrawn on an as-needed basis.”
“My special care?” I asked.
He looked up from the paperwork. “While you resided at the mental health facility, the trust specified that you were to be provided whatever wasn’t covered by their regular fees.”
“Such as?”
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