Not that sorry, though, when a grandmotherly relative called me a nasty name on our way out the courtroom doors. Wearing, I might add, something that looked an awful lot like a skirted bathing suit under her coat, coupled with bulging turquoise leggings.
Sheesh. Maybe Kyoko’s right about this place! I picked up my coffee cup again, enjoying the rich, slightly bitter meld of espresso, foamed milk, and a hint of sweetness.
“So what are you going to do now? Stay here in Staunton with that nice new job of yours?” Trinity dunked her orange spice teabag a couple of times and dug it out with her spoon.
“It’s not that nice. And no.” I avoided her eyes, running my finger along the smooth mug handle. “I’m just waiting to hear back about housing, and then I’ll move to Osaka.” I sipped, feeling a painful stab at the thought of Christie’s chew toys. “You don’t want a puppy, do you?”
“Me? I can’t have a dog, Shiloh. My cousin’s allergic.”
“Well. I’m looking.” My voice came out mournful. “Although it’s harder to give her up than I thought.”
“But the Osaka job’s good news, right? I guess you’ll be leaving soon.” She sighed. “Like everybody else. First Jamie, now you. But good luck. I mean it.”
“Thanks. I’m already boxing stuff up.”
“What about your job at The Leader? Have you quit yet? After what, a couple of weeks of work?”
“I won’t quit until I get the tickets. But then, yes. I’ll talk to Kevin and resign.” I stared into the mug. “But …”
“But what?”
“But I’m glad I came to Staunton.” The reflected lights in my foam-covered coffee jiggled as I picked up the mug, emotion suddenly clouding my throat. “My life changed here. I discovered love here.”
I sipped, not trusting myself to speak more.
“Love. You mean like Adam?”
“Adam?” The mug jerked, sloshing against my lips. I put it down and reached for a napkin. “Sure. He’s a nice guy.” I wiped my mouth and then my mug, remembering how he’d sponged cream off the side of my coffee cup in Tastee Freez with his napkin. “But … I really meant Jesus. I never knew anyone could love me so much. Could …”
I broke off, teary-eyed, and sponged my cheek in irritation with my napkin. What’s the matter with you, Shiloh? Trial stress? Too-late nights working on news stories? PMS?
Instead of finishing my sentence I dumped another sugar packet in my coffee, watching the crystals dissolve. Definitely PMS.
“Jesus.” Trinity’s mouth made a straight line. Eyes turned down. Stirring her tea, chin in hand.
I dabbed my eyes again, feeling the same boldness that had steadied my shaking knees in the Winchester courtroom. “I never knew what love was until I gave my heart to Jesus. He changed everything.”
“Changed everything how? By giving you a man who loves you and a new job?”
“No. By forgiving everything I’ve ever done and letting me start over again with Him.”
Trinity started slightly, but enough to make her chair scrape. She sipped her tea in silence a long while then shrugged and picked at some lint on her jacket. “I don’t know, Shiloh. It ain’t that easy for me to believe.”
“Sure it is. Like Faye told me—sometimes you just have to say yes.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yes and no. You read and pray and see the truth, and then you make the choice to give up your old ways. And put on His instead.”
“You Christians.” Trinity rolled her eyes, the pensive expression turning hard.
“Yeah. I know. We’re a bunch of pains in the neck.” I lifted my coffee cup to my lips with a slight smile.
Trinity’s laugh surprised me, dimpling her cheeks delightfully. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just … well, you know Grandma. She’s always yakking about ‘Jesus’ this and ‘Jesus’ that, and now you! You ever watch pro wrestling? It’s like tag team.”
I grinned, picturing Tim and Becky. “Tag team isn’t always such a bad thing,” I said, gently patting her arm. “Especially if the people tag-teaming really love you.”
My watch had stopped. I flicked the crystal then groaned and unclasped it from my wrist. So much for all that money I’d plunked down at the Gucci counter. The cheap Wal-Mart special I’d bought for swimming eight years ago? That still worked.
I was digging through my purse in search of my migrating cell phone when I heard Trinity sniffling.
I froze, hand still in my purse. “What’s wrong? What did I do?”
Trinity sponged her eyes, careful not to dab her makeup, then wiped her nose. “PMS,” she muttered.
“Good. That makes two of us.” I turned my cell phone to see the time then breathed out in relief. Still half an hour before my lunch break ended.
“And all that stuff you said about … you know.”
“No, I don’t. What?”
“About Jesus, Shiloh. I don’t even … well, believe in Him. Exactly.”
“That’s all right. He knows that, too, and still loves you.” I was blabbering, but for some odd reason I didn’t care. Or stop. “Just tell Him the truth, Trinity. Tell Him you don’t yet, but you want to.”
I saw tears glitter in her eyes again, and her graceful throat flutter as she swallowed. “I’ve gotta go,” she said abruptly, collecting her purse. “Work. You know how Jerry is.”
She pushed the gift bag across the table that had my scarf in it, and I pushed it back. “Keep it.”
“What?” Trinity shoved the bag in my direction. “You bought it in Japan.”
“No. You keep it.” I shoved it again and picked up my coffee cup.
“Why? So I’ll become a Christian?” she asked a little warily, fingering the soft fluff.
I made a face. “Give me a break, Trinity. So you’ll have a warm neck. Although as warm as it’s been lately, you might have to save it for next year.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve worn short sleeves all week.”
Trinity took the scarf out and wrapped it around her shoulders, the soft gray color complementing her charcoal jacket and silver earrings. “Really? You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. There are more important things in my life now than scarves. I promise you that.”
Trinity rose and hugged me, her voice trembly. “I don’t know how to say this, Shiloh, but I really needed someone in my life like you. You … you give me hope.”
Her lips quivered, and she pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes and fled out of Barnes & Noble, not even bothering to wave good-bye. Doors closing behind her in a glint of pale winter sun.
I stared at her retreating figure. “Hope for what?” I said out loud, but Trinity had vanished.
I finished my coffee alone, fingering the soft ivory scarf Vanna Carter had given me for Christmas. Simple. Hand-knit. I pressed it to my nose; it smelled like vanilla, fireplaces, and cinnamon.
Funny how I’d just replaced an expensive Japanese boutique buy with something I could probably sell for five bucks on eBay. And yet it seemed, sitting there at the empty table with memories of snows and Christmas and Adam wrapped around my neck, that I’d come away with the better deal.
My cell phone vibrated loudly on the table, and I answered.
“This is the office of James Reuben Prufrock III, Attorney at Law, returning your call. How may we help you?”
“Well, it depends,” I said, jerking myself up straight. “On whether one of your clients is still threatening me.”
Pause. “Which client, ma’am?”
“Ashley Sweetwater.”
I waited an eternity while the receptionist typed. Asked me to spell and respell the name. Asked where Ashley lived and how to spell her maiden name.
And then she finally came on the line again. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We have no one by that name in our client file.”
“You what?” I sloshed coffee over the rim of the mug.
“I’m sorry. She’s not listed with us.”
I dragged
my hand through my hair in disbelief. I mean, I knew Ashley had no qualms about lying, but forgery?
“You mean you’ve never sent a letter to me, Shiloh P. Jacobs, in the name of James Prufrock himself? Signed?”
“No, ma’am. I’m sorry. I don’t have your name on file either. You must be mistaken.”
I hung up the phone, shaking with anger. “Oh, I know who’s mistaken, all right,” I muttered, scrolling through my phone number list until I came to Ashley’s number. “And she’s going to hear from me.”
I grabbed up my things, the once-sweet coffee tasting bitter in my mouth as I drained the last sip. And stormed out the glass doors like Trinity had gone, pausing at a potted tree just starting to push out pale green buds. Away from patrons. Away from everybody.
A square cement planter encircled the tree, so I leaned against it, phone still shaking in my hand, facing the outside of JCPenney as I gathered my words. Preparing to speak. To accuse, and rightfully so. To yell. To tell her exactly what a rotten half sister she was and how we needed to go our separate ways.
And as I looked up into the wide pane of glass, I saw it: a powder-blue baby set in the display window. Fluffy bunny slippers and pajamas. A stuffed blue duck tucked in the pocket. A fuzzy bath towel wrapped around the whole thing.
The strangest thing of all—my own image layered over it in glass. Blinking back tears. My coat buttoned against the harsh wind.
The two reflections merging curiously into one.
And that old gift card from JCPenney screaming at me from my purse.
I started, mouth sputtering. Oh, no, no, God. I don’t think so! Don’t even …
I stood there in the wind, not quite believing what just went through my mind. And feeling like a hypocrite for everything I’d just said to Trinity about God forgiving me—and now, not twenty minutes later, taking it back.
“But God,” I whispered. “I feel nothing for Ashley. I have no love.”
Adam’s voice echoed back to me from across the months: “God can raise the dead.”
All at once I pushed off the planter, throwing my purse over my shoulder.
Chapter 38
I took three days to write the letter. Poring over the words by lamplight, contacts exchanged for old Prada glasses, eyes strained from too many hours of staring at a computer screen.
But I wrote it. I told Ashley I knew. That she could stop hiding, stop bluffing.
And I told her she’d hurt me. Deeply. And it would be a long time before I could trust her again, if I ever did.
In my own handwriting, on pretty Japanese paper. I stared at the lines, remembering the letters Mom had written me back in Japan. Most of which went unanswered, or in many cases, simply unread.
I ended my letter by telling Ashley the truth. That I did not want to forgive her, but since Jesus had forgiven me, I couldn’t say no.
And I sealed up the envelope and tucked it in the package, which I wrapped in pale blue paper.
“Is Clarence in?” I wiped cold rain off my sleek black-silver jacket and shook my umbrella out the door.
Lee Ann the receptionist glanced up at me, face wrinkling into a scowl of dead hate, and turned stiffly back to her work. She swiveled her back to me in emphasis.
“Well.” I coughed back a laugh. “Thanks for the help.”
I don’t know why, but Lee Ann’s coldness struck me as funny. I should have been offended, but it had become a sort of game to me. Not a spiritual one, mind you. More of an internal bet. I kept a tally list on my cubicle wall of her jabs—and sometimes complimented her shirt or her hair just to add another tick.
Sick, I suppose. But that’s what served for humor in a setting where I wrote up custody battles and domestic disputes.
“Clarence?” I rapped on the mail-room door and pushed it open.
“Heya, Shannon.” He shut the microwave and punched in eleven seconds. I’d heard about this “eleven seconds” quirk; apparently it was true.
“Shiloh.” I held out my package. The second one I was sending to Ashley with, so far, no response. “Could you weigh it for me?”
“Oh, sure, sure.” The microwave dinged, and Clarence pulled out his cracked I’M-NOT-IRISH-BUT-KISS-ME-ANYWAY mug. He grinned as he took a sip, his wrinkled cheeks bulging against wild whitish-gray hair. “Now we’re talkin’. Eleven seconds does it just right.”
“Root beer. You heat root beer in the microwave.” It came out as a statement rather than a question.
“Yep. Nothin’ better in the world. Wanna try some?”
“No thanks.” I handed him my box. “I’ll just … mail this and get back to work.”
“What’s in it this time? More baby stuff?” His grin widened into something bordering on a leer, and he shook the box.
“Yes.” I checked my watch. “If you don’t mind, I’m kind of in a hurry.”
The name Clarence conjured up images of a charming, elderly British gentleman, but Clarence Toyer was neither charming nor British. Although he did wear a bow tie. Every day. Each day’s uglier, if possible, than the previous. One so hideous that the office secretary spilled a cup of coffee when she saw him.
“You havin’ a baby, Sherry?” Clarence’s teeth gleamed yellow like an old piano.
“If I were, why would I be sending stuff to Chicago?” I slapped the bills down on the table as the meter rang up the postage. “And my name’s Shiloh.”
Big, big, big mistake.
I learned that day that Clarence was also the source of every major rumor that spread through The Leader staff.
“This is ridiculous!” I threw down my pencil when Meg the photographer came by to congratulate me on my supposed pregnancy. Meg, mind you, christened “Mary Margaret” by her staunch Irish parents in hopes of devoting her to the church as a nun. Fat chance for that. “Why would Matt say something like that?”
Meg tilted her head sideways, her nearly waist-length hair splaying over her rows of hemp-braided necklaces and beads. “I dunno. Said he heard it down in the mail room.”
I opened my mouth to spew out a torrent of threats when I caught a whiff of something pungent and foul drifting from Meg’s mug.
“What is that?” I turned my head to gasp fresh air.
“Sassafras and cayenne pepper.” Meg peered into the darkish depths. “Mixed with some homemade brew my boyfriend Cooter makes in a still.”
She shook the mug at me, making the tiny bells on her billowy bohemian-print skirt jingle. “Want some? It’s better for you than your Japanese green stuff. In fact, tea leaves are probably carcinogenic, too. And if you are pregnant, by any chance, then—”
“I’m not pregnant, Meg!” I gripped my head in my hands. “That package was for my half sister! Next time I see Clarence I’ll …”
“Did you deny it?”
“What? Of course not! I didn’t think he meant it!”
“You have to be really careful with Clarence.” She smiled down at me breezily as if this happened all the time. “Deny everything. You’re a reporter, Jacobs! You should know that. Even if you’re lying, there’s always some sucker out there who’ll believe you if you deny it.”
I threw back my chair and grabbed the marker under my white message board. And wrote I’M NOT PREGNANT! in big block letters. “There. Is that denial enough?”
I slapped the cap on the marker then refilled my green-tea cup and tried to focus on my newest crime story—a drug and firearms arrest in Verona. I was staring at the screen, trying to come up with a lead, when the desk phone rang.
I answered with my usual “News-Leader-this-is-Shiloh-Jacobs” bit, still punching in stuff on my keyboard with my left hand.
“Uh … hey.”
The office froze to an eerie silence. “Ashley?”
“Yeah.” A weak laugh bleated across the line. “It’s me.”
I took a breath, willing myself to say something nice. Something civil, at least. “How did you get my work number?”
A baby jabbered in the
background, filling in the dead weight of the line while Ashley stayed there, not speaking. “Do you want me to hang up?”
“No, no. I was just … curious.”
“Google search.”
We just sat there not speaking until I felt uncomfortable. “Did you … uh … get the …”
“The package? Yes. Thanks. That was really … you know. Nice. Of you.”
For goodness’ sake! We sounded like robots on an awkward first date. I scrunched my eyes closed and tried to think of something to say.
“I … uh … just sent another package for you.” I fiddled with my pen. Picked up my teacup and sipped it nervously.
“Really? Well, you don’t have to send it, you know. If you don’t want to.”
“Well, I want to. Is that all right?”
“Why, Shiloh? Why are you being so nice after everything mean you said in that horrible letter?”
“Mean? You were the one who called me a selfish monster, as I recall.”
“And pregnant,” tittered Meg on her way to the watercooler.
I glared at Meg and scooted farther inside my cubicle. Pressed the phone to my ear and quieted my voice, even though the Dilbert comic strip promised that attracted eavesdroppers in droves.
“Mom did write a letter about Carson and wanting to get to know him better,” said Ashley, her voice hard and reluctant, like pulling out splinters. “She said she’d changed and wanted to be different, and … Whatever. Maybe she didn’t mean to include him in her will. I must have … you know. Misunderstood her intentions.”
“Oh. Misunderstood.” I rolled my eyes.
“Anyway, I just want to know why you suddenly decided to be nice.”
I let out a long sigh, setting down my teacup so hard it almost spilled. “Ashley, it’s not that I suddenly decided anything. I just wanted Carson—and you—to know I still care about you.” It was hard, but I got it out.
“You didn’t sound like it last time.”
“Why, because I’m not going to fork over my inheritance to you? You lied to me. You forged papers. You have no idea what stress that’s caused me over the past few months.”
Like Sweet Potato Pie Page 33