She might not have been there when she entered the world, but she is there to see her out. She will do what her sister could not. She blinks back tears and uses the comb to work out the tangles. Per her request, the funeral home has already washed and dried her hair, but they’ve done a terrible job of combing it out.
“I keep thinking I’m going to hurt you,” she says to the still and silent girl on the table, her voice loud as it bounces off the tiled walls.
They have already dressed Annie in what she will be buried in: the outfit she was going to wear to leave her reception, a little white lace shift dress. They’d bought that dress together in Greenville. She tries to think of that day, of Annie happy and alive, Annie singing, Annie trying on outfit after outfit until Faye was plumb exhausted and begging to go home.
“I keep expecting you to fuss at me,” she tells Annie. “You were always so tender-headed.” She chuckles to herself, remembering the hell of combing out both girls’ hair after baths when they were little. There was not enough No More Tangles in the world.
“You should tell your mama what a good job I did,” she says to Annie now. “I mean, you’re welcome to lie a little.” She thinks about this, then adds, “’Course I guess where you are, that’s not allowed.” She chuckles again, half expecting Annie to laugh along. Her eyes stray to Annie’s face, wishing she would find the trace of a smile. But whoever dressed her also arranged her face into a nonexpression expression. She is Annie, but devoid of any emotion or humanity.
“Remember when I did your hair up for prom, and you hated it? You went to your room, and I hollered that you’d better not take down those hours of work.”
She can see the scene perfectly in her memory. Annie stalking off to her room, calling out, “I won’t, Aunt Faye,” even though they both knew that was exactly what she intended to do behind the closed door of her room.
Sure enough, when she came out, her updo was undone, and Clary, the traitor, had snuck in and used a big fat iron to add long curls to Annie’s otherwise stick-straight hair. It had looked better than the updo, but Faye had never once admitted it. Instead, they hadn’t spoken for days.
Faye blinks back tears again, clears her field of vision as she untangles the last of Annie’s hair, and begins to use the straight iron, smoothing her long locks into a loose, glossy sheet of hair. The child always did have the loveliest thick hair. Poor Clary was always messing with hers, coloring it just about every color in the rainbow at some point in her life. Faye always suspected it was because she knew her hair was simply not as beautiful as her cousin’s. Clary hadn’t gone to prom, opting to stay home with Travis and boycott.
Faye continues talking as if they are just chatting like usual. “I guess you know this already—because I’m sure you’re watching all of this—but Clary got quite a confession out of Minnie Porter. The mystery of what happened to your mother is finally solved, thanks to your cousin.”
Her daughter has solved a mystery that has plagued the whole town for decades. “You would’ve been so proud of her,” she tells Annie. “And that bird of hers. The one she was missing? Do you remember that, how upset she was?” She sighs. It was only a few weeks ago, but already it feels like years.
“Well, that bird somehow ended up sitting where you were! It’s what led them to you, or I’m not sure they would’ve ever found you. I never paid any mind to those birds—never cared to, as I’m sure you know—but Clary always said her doves are special. Now I go outside every day to see them. I’m learning all their names, and Clary even let one sit on my finger. It started flapping its wings and stirred up quite a wind. Messed my hair all up!” She finds herself chuckling, even as tears run down her cheeks.
And speaking of hair, she is nearly done with Annie’s. She will add some hair spray, which is silly, but it feels necessary. She stops, takes a moment to let herself really be there, to appreciate the gift this is, this moment alone with Annie to say what she has never been able to say. She hopes Annie can hear it and senses that, from where she is now, she does. This is, she realizes, why it had to be her doing Annie’s hair and no one else. Because there is something she still needs to say, and this is her last chance to say it.
“You saved my life,” she says to her niece. Her voice sounds thick, strangled, and she swallows. “I don’t know what would’ve happened to me if I’d stayed in Virginia, if I hadn’t come here for you. I think T. J. might’ve killed me. Or if I didn’t actually die, I would’ve died inside. I already felt like I was dying when the phone rang that night.”
She rolls her eyes at herself, laughs a nervous laugh. “I know, I know. ‘Oh, Aunt Faye, you’re being dramatic again.’ And I guess I am. But when I think of my life—of all that it became—you and Clary and Hal, my salon, it feels . . . meant to be. It feels like I turned out exactly like I was supposed to. But I couldn’t have—wouldn’t have—any of that without you. And I’m sorry—” Tears form in her eyes, and this time she doesn’t blink them away. “I was always telling you what you should do. But there were things I should’ve done that I didn’t.”
She lets the tears run down her cheeks, taking her mascara with them. She places her hands on her niece’s still, silent body. “I’m so sorry I ever let you believe it was my sacrifice to stay here and raise you. When it was my privilege.” She scans the room, the ceiling, wishing for a sign, a confirmation that Annie can hear her. She has to believe she can. She rests her hand on Annie’s cheek for a moment, gets one final look at the job she has done, and, satisfied, she exits, leaving the room in a cloud of hair spray. Which, Annie would say, is just as it should be.
Laurel
Tyson Barnes comes to Annie’s funeral. He finds Laurel sitting alone in a pew near the back, uncertain why she’s there except that she feels like she should be. Her mother refused to come, fretting about the way it would look, leaving her to brave the crowd alone. But Annie’s story was her story—is her story—and she feels obligated to see it through to the end, though this is not the end she had hoped for.
She is so grateful to Tyson Barnes for acknowledging her existence that she almost hugs him. “May I sit?” he asks. There is an empty spot on both sides of her. He can have his pick.
She doesn’t know whether it is appropriate for her to be there. The revelation of what her grandmother confessed is still reverberating through the town. Tyson takes a seat in the pew, making her feel less conspicuous. She finds herself scanning the crowd for Damon’s face. She wonders if he will keep his distance now that the truth has come out. She will not blame him if he does. Her family’s good name now has a big black X beside it. If her grandmother is to be believed, her grandfather killed Annie’s mother. She can still scarcely believe it.
“How’re you holding up?” Tyson Barnes asks, keeping his voice low. Around them, other mourners file quietly into the church, heads down. She sees some of them look at her, then look away. The news has traveled fast. Bad news always does.
She shrugs. “I’m still sort of in shock, I guess,” she whispers.
He shakes his head. “I knew Cordell Lewis didn’t do it. But I had no idea who did,” he says. “I want you to know that.”
She nods, looks down at her feet.
“Hey,” Tyson says. She looks up. “You’ve got nothing to feel bad about, you know. You didn’t do it.”
She presses her lips into what passes for a smile of acknowledgment. “I know,” she says.
“Then hold your head high,” Tyson says. “Don’t apologize to any of these folks for who you are. Your grandfather did something awful. But you didn’t.”
“Then why do I feel like I did?” she asks.
“Because they’re your family. It’s guilt by association, I guess. Because this whole town has spent years despising an innocent man, and we were all, unwittingly, a part of perpetuating that.”
“I had even thought about writing a book about it,” she says, and her voice is too loud when she says it. She covers her mouth with a stri
cken look and lowers her voice to a whisper again. “I wanted to make my mark by writing about someone else’s tragedy.”
Tyson Barnes looks at her. “So you’re saying you shouldn’t write about it now that it’s your tragedy, too?”
His words catch her up short. She cocks her head. “What do you mean?”
He grins at her like she’s a child he just needs to have patience with. “Before, you were willing to report it. That’s the easy part. It’s different when you have to live it. But maybe that’s where the heart of a truly good story comes from. Maybe when you’re in it—fully in it instead of watching from a distance—you’ll find out what kind of writing you’re really capable of.” He shrugs. “But what do I know? I’m a defense attorney. I take up for scumbags.”
She is about to tell him that Cordell Lewis isn’t a scumbag. That her grandfather, a man who used to carry butterscotch disks for her in his pocket and taught her all the words to “Get Rhythm” by Johnny Cash, was the scumbag. But then she hears someone say, “Is this seat taken?” She looks up to see Damon standing there, his hands in his pockets and a hopeful look on his face.
She scooches over, and as he takes the seat on the other side of her, she feels relief wash over her. She was afraid he would turn his back on her now that she’s the granddaughter of a murderer. She was afraid that he would fire her, even. That his father would make him do it to avoid the negative association. Her grandmother’s confession has upended her world. But sitting there in that church, she realizes that sometimes worlds need upending. Sometimes the story has to go a completely different direction in order to conclude the right way. The sheriff walks up to Tyson, and he turns to speak to him, his back to Laurel and Damon.
Damon uses the opportunity to lean over and whisper in her ear. “Is he my competition now?” he asks, pointing at Tyson’s back.
She pulls back, shocked, and looks at him. “Competition?” she whispers.
He rolls his eyes and sighs. “I’ve already confessed my crush. This should not be news to you.”
“From when we were kids, yes,” she says. “But . . . now?” She knows the confusion is registering on her face.
He grins and nods. “Now.”
“Well, that is news to me.”
Damon sits back against the pew, looking relaxed. “Good thing we’re in the news business, you and I.”
“Yes,” Laurel agrees, feeling lighter than when she walked into the church, lighter than she’s felt in a very long time. She thinks about what Tyson said about writing the story better now that it’s her story, too. Maybe that’s what she’s been missing—the part that involves her heart, her soul, the part of herself she’s always held in reserve. “It is a good thing,” she agrees. The organist begins to play a hymn, and note by note, the music swells, filling the room with its sound.
Clary
As Travis is wrapping up his sermon, she slips out of her seat and goes out the side door of the church. She walks to the display cage where the doves are waiting for the release, the four of them clustered together inside the smaller space of the cage, making their little roosting noises. Gently, she scoops them, one by one, into the basket she will use for the release. She closes the lid until it is time to open it and let them fly away.
Mica is still too weak, so she has left him in the loft at home. He needs time to heal. There is a time to heal, and a time to soar, a time to hold on, and a time to let go. There is time for all of it. She tips her chin toward the sky, takes in the fluffy white clouds, the bright, blinding sun. She breathes in the hot June air, feels the sticky humidity fill her lungs, smells the hydrangeas blooming nearby, feels her feet firmly planted on her hometown soil. She has something Annie doesn’t have; she still has time.
She has done dozens of funeral releases, but she has never done one when her dove represented the soul of a person she loved. A few of the congregants begin trickling out, but Clary keeps looking up at the sky, thinking, as she does, of Aunt Lydia waiting up in heaven for Annie to arrive, the joyous reunion they must be having. It was only ever her mother who Annie wanted, after all. Clary takes comfort in this thought. That little girl and her mother are back together again, not wishing on the stars but living among them. She tries to take comfort in anything she can as she grapples with all that has happened.
The service lets out, and she stands, silent and still, holding the basket, waiting for the mourners to gather in the grassy area where she will do the release. She nods at people who nod at her, but no one smiles; no one calls out. Everyone is somber and serious, as they should be. A reverence is called for, expected, needed, at a time like this. Clary is not a religious person and yet, she is a believer.
She believes in souls taking flight and a God who takes them home. She is a believer in love and destiny and hope. She is a believer in everything, somehow, working out. She thinks of Travis, of the daughter she gave up, of her mom and cousin, of all that has come before and after. There is, she believes, purpose in every goodbye and every hello, in every win and every loss, in every rough patch and every smooth place. As she opens the basket and the doves fly past her, she feels all those things at once.
The birds furiously flap their wings in their effort to take to the skies. The wind they stir up takes her breath away in a powerful rush that she will carry with her for the rest of her life. She feels emptied and filled at the same time. She feels very brave and very afraid. She feels simultaneously larger than life and smaller than a speck of dust. Most of all, she feels an unexplainable, indescribable peace. She thinks of something she heard once: “All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.” Yes, she thinks: that.
She holds her breath as the doves climb higher and higher into the sky. “Goodbye, Annie,” she whispers as her eyes fill with tears and the lump in her throat seems to grow larger. “I will miss you every day.” With the rest of the congregation, she watches as, together, the doves circle and circle overhead, getting their bearings, finding their way home.
BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS
There are several main characters in this book. Did you see yourself in any certain one? If so, which one and why?
The first time we see Annie, she compares her car to her fiancé, calling them both “new, reliable, and suitable.” How is this description significant to who Annie is?
Two major themes in this book are regret and release. Discuss how each character—Annie, Kenny, Laurel, Faye, and Clary—deals with both regret and release.
When Faye recalls the time she lost Annie as a little girl, she remembers that Annie and Clary each wanted to ride a different ride. What ride did each girl choose? Are their choices as children indicative of their personalities as adults or contrary to them?
Which character did you find yourself rooting for? What did you want for her or him?
7UP CHICKEN MARINADE RECIPE
2 cups 7UP
1 cup soy sauce
1 Tbsp. horseradish (optional, but you know Faye included it!)
1 cup vegetable or olive oil
Boneless, skinless chicken breasts
Mix all ingredients except chicken in bowl. Pour over chicken breasts and marinate for at least eight hours in refrigerator. Grill chicken. Serve with roasted or baked potatoes and a green veggie. (Or slice and serve over salad, just like Faye did.)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is the part where I try to remember to thank everyone who provided help as I wrote this book. This was a tough one, as I battled several health issues while writing and required much more of my friends and family than normal. So, sit back, relax, maybe get a refreshment. Here we go . . .
Huge thanks goes to my husband, Curt Whalen, and our children (Jack, Ashleigh, Matt, Rebekah, Brad, and Annaliese) for both taking care of me and managing to live in peace with me throughout this time. I know it was not easy, and I am grateful for you guys. (Curt also, he would want me to mention, helped me immensely—he would want me to say immensely—with t
he story arc between Faye and Hal York, who he now refers to as Hopper.)
Ariel Lawhon, you know what a terrible human I can be and yet you love me anyway. That’s the true definition of a best friend. Thank you for the gift of your friendship. Ashley was right—it really is like no other.
To my mom, Sandy Brown, you’ve always believed in me, and that belief gave me the confidence to go forward with some crazy dreams. Without your voice in my head spurring me on, there’s no way I would or could have. I am grateful for your continued love and support no matter what.
To my agent, Liza Dawson, and her team: The other day one of my friends remarked that you are the perfect agent for me. And I said with a big smile, “She really is.” You really are. And Jodi Warshaw is the perfect editor for me. Jodi, every time I’m around you, I like you all the more, and I appreciate both your patience and your positivity. I’m so grateful to have found a home at Lake Union and marvel at all you guys do for your authors. I was fortunate to have two very talented developmental editors help me with this book: Caitlin Alexander and Faith Black Ross both made this book better in their own individually unique, editorially gifted ways. And Nicole Pomeroy and her crackerjack copyeditors, especially Stacy Abrams and Sarah Engel, made me look ever so much smarter than I really am.
As for the friends who hung in there, prayed for me, and never failed to ask “How’s the book going?” I have to specifically thank Tracy and Douglas Graham (you guys got a character named after you in this one—sorry if she’s a bit annoying; no parallels were intended), Jill and Billy Dean, Lisa and Mike Shea (DSW!!), Misty and Carl Howard, Amy and Clay Gilliam, Beth and Steve Burton, Maria and Micah Swett, Jen and Terry Tolbert, Rachel and Rick Olsen, and Christy and Alex Kennedy. (If I forgot anyone, I am so sorry!)
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