When Never Comes

by Barbara Davis

  It wasn’t much, a few souvenirs from a day at the fair: a plastic wristband, a handful of faded paper tickets, an old black-and-white photo. She reached for the photo first. It was one of those cheesy sepia shots where you dressed up in period costumes and posed in front of a makeshift backdrop. She traced a thumb over Charlene Parker’s image.

  She was sporting a feather boa and a tatty hat plumed with ostrich feathers, her head tipped at a saucy angle. Beside her, a young Christy-Lynn grinned gleefully, her front teeth too big for her twelve-year-old face. She had chosen a sequined headband from the musty box of props because it made her look like a flapper from the roaring twenties, and because it matched her mother’s costume. But it was the necklace glinting at the base of her mother’s throat that held her attention—a mirror image of the one she herself had been wearing when the photo was taken.

  There was a fresh ache in Christy-Lynn’s throat as she shook the necklace from the envelope and into her palm, recalling the night she had thrown it into the trash and then later retrieved it. Years of being shut up had caused it to tarnish—appropriate, she supposed, given the way things had turned out. She brushed impatiently at the tears suddenly smearing her vision, reminding herself that they were a little girl’s tears, and that she wasn’t that girl anymore. That girl was gone and had been for a long time.

  TEN

  Ladson, South Carolina

  October 27, 1995

  The fair is in town—or over in Ladson, which is as good as the same thing. The kids at school can’t stop talking about it. How much of their allowance they’ve saved up. Which rides they’ll go on. Which gloriously greasy foods they’ll scarf down—and likely throw up later.

  It all sounds wonderful.

  But Christy-Lynn knows better than to entertain any hope of going herself. It costs money to get in, money to ride the rides, money to buy corn dogs and funnel cakes. And there simply isn’t any money to spare. Which is why she’s surprised when her mother comes into her room on Saturday morning wearing jeans and a sweatshirt instead of her Piggly Wiggly uniform.

  “Get dressed. We’re going for a ride.”

  Something about her mother’s smile makes Christy-Lynn nervous. “A ride where?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out,” she says with a wink before disappearing down the hall.

  Christy-Lynn stifles a squeal as her mother pulls through the fairground gates. The lot is packed, and they have to park out where the pavement ends and the muddy rows are marked with bright-orange cones. It makes the walk to the admittance gate almost interminable, but she doesn’t care. They’re at the fair!

  There’s a moment of shock when they finally arrive at the gate, and her mother reaches into her back pocket to produce a thick wad of bills. It’s more money than she’s ever seen at one time—certainly more than she’s ever seen in her mother’s hand. Her eyes go wide as Charlene Parker peels off several bills and hands them to the bored-looking man behind the ticket window.

  “Where did you get all that?” Christy-Lynn asks when the man finishes attaching their plastic armbands.

  Her mother looks away, stuffing the remaining bills back into her pocket. “Work. Where do you think?”

  “But I thought . . .”

  “Hush!” her mother hisses, giving her arm a quick jerk. “You want to go in or not?”

  Christy-Lynn swallows the rest of her question and nods. She definitely wants to go in.

  They hit the Ferris wheel first, to get warmed up, then move on to the Tilt-o-Whirl, the Starship 3000, and the Rock-n-Roller-Coaster. By the time they step off the last ride, the world is a wobbly, queasy blur, and Christy-Lynn is giddy with the sights and sounds all around her. They eat barbecue and cheese fries, funnel cakes dripping with butter and powdered sugar, then wash it all down with frozen lemonade.

  After lunch, her mother finds a stand where they sell beer in plastic cups. They sit under a big white tent filled with picnic tables while she drinks her beer, then orders another and drinks that too. When she finishes her third, they head for the exhibit tents: dressage, rodeo, and bull riding, cook-offs and bake-offs, contests for the biggest tomato. None of these interests her mother. But when they approach a local arts-and-crafts tent, she quickly ducks inside.

  She hovers before a narrow stall filled with tables of cheap jewelry, fingering a wide bangle set with bits of what’s meant to pass for turquoise but is probably just plastic. Next, she picks up an engraved silver band and briefly slips it onto her thumb before sliding it off again and returning it to its black velvet tray.

  There’s something wistful in her face, a kind of longing Christy-Lynn has never seen before, as if she’s thinking of all the things she can’t have. Christy-Lynn looks away, not wanting her mother to know she has seen her sadness, then turns back when she feels her mother’s hand on her arm.

  “Christy, honey, look at this. It’s a mother-daughter necklace!”

  The necklace dangles from her mother’s fingers, glinting sharply in the late-afternoon sun. It’s a heart pendant, cut jaggedly down the middle, only there are two chains instead of one. She can’t quite make sense of it.

  “It’s supposed to come apart,” her mother explains. “See? Right down the middle.” She flips it over, then holds it out to Christy-Lynn. “Look! It says ‘forever friends’ on the back. That’s us . . . forever friends.” She glances at the price tag threaded through the clasp, then turns to the man behind the table. “We’ll take it.”

  “But, Mama, you said . . .”

  “Hush now, so I can pay the man.” She’s already reaching into her back pocket for the stack of bills folded there. The man counts back her change, then snips off the price tag. When he pulls out a small gift box, Charlene stops him. “I don’t need a box. We’ll just put them on. Come here, honey, and hold up your hair.”

  Christy-Lynn does as she’s told, still wondering how her mother managed to scrape up enough money to get them through the gate let alone buy a piece of jewelry. The chain feels cool against her skin, foreign. She watches as her mother fumbles with her half of the pendant and then pulls the tabletop mirror closer.

  “We’ll never take them off,” her mother tells her with startling fierceness as she stares at their shared reflections. “Whatever happens—no matter how bad things get—we’ll always be two pieces of the same heart. Forever friends.”

  Christy-Lynn nods, confused by the edge of determination that has slipped into her mother’s tone. Or perhaps it’s desperation. She isn’t sure, and she’s afraid to ask for fear that the spell of this perfect day will be broken. Forever friends. The words flutter through her head like a pair of butterfly wings. Shyly, she touches the glinting half heart at the base of her throat—the first piece of jewelry she has ever owned. Her mother smiles and does the same, and at that moment, Christy-Lynn feels something tug at the center of her chest, as if an invisible cord now runs between them—two pieces of the same heart.

  As long as she lives, she will never forget this day.

  ELEVEN

  Sweetwater, Virginia

  December 12, 2016

  Wade tipped his head back to study the sky, a chilly, cloudless blue, then stretched his legs out across the ribbed bottom of the old cedar canoe. He grimaced as he drew yet another line of red ink across the page, then scribbled a note in the margin. Tighten flashback or lose? Or maybe he should just toss the whole thing in the lake and be done with it. Frustrated, he reached for the dented green thermos that had been his grandfather’s and poured himself a cup of strong black coffee.

  It had taken the old man three summers to build the boat, and Wade had been beside him for all of it, overseeing every plank and rib and painstaking coat of epoxy. Three summers had seemed like an eternity to wait for something they were just going to fish in. Then one day when he was feeling particularly antsy, his grandfather explained that someday the canoe would be his, to fish in with his own children, which was why it had to be built strong, s
o it would last.

  And it had lasted, tucked up under the deck, protected from the elements by several layers of blue nylon tarp. He’d only had to brush out the cobwebs and recane the seats before putting it in the water. He wondered what his grandfather would think if he could see him now, adrift on a chilly December morning, equipped not with rod and reel and a box of freshly tied flies, but with a handful of rumpled pages and a glaring red pen.

  He didn’t usually edit on paper, or in a boat for that matter, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He’d been hacking and slashing the same four chapters for a week now, and something still wasn’t working. He’d hoped a change of venue might help, but so far it hadn’t. What he needed was a fresh set of eyes.

  That’s where Simone had come in handy. Whenever he found himself stalled on a story, bashing at the same handful of lines, he would hand the laptop to Simone. She never suggested any kind of fix—her writing style was too different from his—but she was always able to pinpoint precisely where he’d gone off the rails.

  He missed that.

  Hell, he missed a lot of things. Like having someone next to him in the morning when he opened his eyes or across from him when he sat down for a meal, someone to fill the quiet that sometimes grew too fraught with memories. The thought brought him up short. Not the gloomy nature of it, but the way he had framed it in his head. Not Simone. Someone. Anyone. Was that really how he felt? Had he finally started to let go?

  The question came with an uncomfortable jolt of clarity. In letting go of his ex-wife, of what he’d had and then lost, his life would somehow be even emptier than before. The bitterness he’d been nursing, clinging to with such tenacity, would be replaced with . . . nothing.

  Would that be so bad? To forget the sting of the day he’d come home to an empty apartment? It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen it coming. They’d been having trouble for a while, but things had gone south in a hurry when he started talking about leaving Week in Review to chase what she snarkily referred to as a pipe dream. But it wasn’t just the money. In fact, looking back, he realized it had never been about the money. He’d never been enough for Simone. But then neither had Kevin. Or Todd. Or Phillip. Perhaps a TV news anchor with good hair would fare better.

  TWELVE

  Sweetwater, Virginia

  December 12, 2016

  Christy-Lynn stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket as she ducked across Main Street. As the last mild days of autumn gave way to chillier weather, Sweetwater’s holiday season had shifted into high gear. Wreaths glowed from every downtown lamppost, and tiny white lights had transformed the drilling green into a twinkly winter wonderland.

  Not that she’d been paying much attention. She’d been too busy tying up the loose ends of her marriage. After a cursory examination of her finances, it was clear that even if Lloyd and Griffin never sold another Stephen Ludlow novel, there was more than enough money for her to live comfortably for . . . well, forever. But the truth was she wasn’t sure she even wanted it. It felt tainted somehow, earned by a man she only thought she knew. What she really wanted—really needed—was to shed any reminder that she’d been married to Stephen at all, to erase him the way she had erased so many other calamities from her past.

  Maybe she’d donate it all to charity. Or set up an endowment of some kind. But in whose name? Stephen certainly didn’t deserve to be remembered as a philanthropist. Perhaps an anonymous donation of some kind. She would have to give it some thought. In the meantime, she had contacted a Realtor to put the house up for sale. She wasn’t sure where she’d eventually end up, but for now at least, Missy seemed happy to have her at the inn, and the truth was she was starting to get comfortable. Perhaps a little too comfortable.

  She could feel herself settling in, becoming part of the weft and weave of Sweetwater’s daily life, and beginning to bond with Missy and Dar. Last night, they had insisted she come along to the annual tree lighting ceremony on the green, and then for pie and coffee after. It had been a lovely night, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was taking advantage of their friendship by lying about her identity—and why she was really in Sweetwater.

  She’d been keeping up with the news, checking in online and on TV every few days. It seemed the worst of the frenzy surrounding her disappearance had begun to die down, thanks in large part to the newly surfaced sex tape of some reality show star and her pool boy. And if the shots taken by the intruder on her terrace had ever shown up anywhere, she never saw them. Now, as she lingered in front of the local bookshop, staring at her reflection in the dusty front window, she wondered if it might not be time to move on.

  She was restless. Not bored, exactly, but fidgety and in need of focus. She had wrapped up the last of her editing projects last week, and for the time being had decided to decline any new projects. Suddenly her plate was disturbingly empty.

  A sharp clatter jolted Christy-Lynn back to the present. She turned to find Carol Boyer banging on her shop window, waving a wad of damp paper towels in an attempt to get her attention. Christy-Lynn smiled and waved back. Carol owned the Crooked Spine. It wasn’t much, a shabby corner shop with outdated titles in the front window and a cramped little café in back where she’d spent more than one afternoon sipping bad lattes and typing up edit notes, but it was something of a fixture in Sweetwater’s quaint downtown.

  Carol waved her inside with a conspiratorial grin then beckoned her toward the café. “I’ve been experimenting,” she announced proudly as she slipped behind the counter. “I’ve been trying to come up with something festive for the holidays, and I think I’ve finally got it. I know how much you love my lattes, but I was wondering if you’d try one of these and tell me what you think. I’m calling it a noggiato.”

  Moments later, Carol placed a frothy mug on the counter and sprinkled on a bit of nutmeg. “There you go,” she said, beaming. “Give that a try.”

  Christy-Lynn sipped politely, trying not to shudder as the first sip went down. It tasted like scorched eggnog and was so sweet it made her teeth ache, but she wasn’t about to dash Carol’s hopes. “It’s very . . . festive,” she said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “I’m sure it’s going to be a huge hit with your customers.”

  Carol scanned the empty shop with forlorn eyes. Her shoulders sagged. “What customers?”

  “Slow afternoon?”

  “More like a slow year. It’s the middle of December, two weeks until Christmas, and I haven’t seen a customer for hours. I don’t know what’s happened. I’ve been running this place for twenty-six years, and it’s never been like this. I guess people just don’t want real books anymore. Rather read on one of those electronic thingies.”

  Christy-Lynn suspected there was more to the story than the advent of e-readers as she surveyed the worn carpet, scarred shelves, and lumpy armchairs. The place had probably been homey once but now felt like a musty basement.

  “Maybe it could do with a bit of a face-lift,” Christy-Lynn suggested. “A little rouge and lipstick.”

  Carol frowned. “Lipstick?”

  Christy-Lynn couldn’t help chuckling. “It’s an expression. It means to spruce the place up. A little paint. Some carpet. Maybe some new chairs up front. And you could brighten up the café a little. Some tablecloths, fresh flowers. It wouldn’t cost much.”

  Carol pulled off her glasses and gave them a wipe with the corner of her apron. “I just haven’t got it in me,” she said wearily. “It’s not the money. It’s just . . . I’m tired.” She held her glasses to the light, then slid them back onto the bridge of her nose. “I’m seventy-four, and I have two grandbabies down in Florida that I never get to see. But this place has been part of my life—part of this town—for almost thirty years.” She was back behind the counter now, filling a small sink with hot water. Her glasses were fogged, her eyes nearly invisible. “I know it’s silly, but I hate to think of the place not being here.”

  “But it would be here. You wouldn’t be closing
it. You’d just be selling it.”

  Carol snorted as she turned off the tap. “Who’d buy this place?”

  Christy-Lynn was about to suggest she contact a business broker but changed her mind when she considered the likelihood of finding a buyer for a run-down bookstore with outdated inventory and no customers. Throw in the fact that said store was in a tiny town most people had never heard of, and the list of potential buyers dwindled considerably.

  “How about me?” Christy-Lynn blurted. The response had come out of nowhere, but the moment it was out, she knew she wasn’t kidding.

  Carole peered at her through steamy glasses. “You’re not serious.”

  Christy-Lynn considered the question a moment. It was absurd, ridiculous. But why not buy a bookstore and stay in Sweetwater? She’d been in love with books as far back as she could remember, and she was going to need to do something.

  “I think I might be,” she said finally. “If you are, that is.”

  “I didn’t know you were thinking of staying in Sweetwater.”

  “I’m not sure I did either. But I’ve been thinking about what I want to do and where I want to do it. Something about Sweetwater feels right.”

  Carol’s jaw went slack, as if she’d just picked up a rock and found a $1 million scratch-off ticket underneath. “You’d really be interested in my little store?”

  Christy-Lynn was as surprised as Carol to realize that she really was interested. In fact, she was nearly giddy at the thought. “I guess everyone who loves books thinks about it at some time or other, but I actually worked in a bookstore when I was in college and loved it.”

  “Could you make a go of it, do you think?”

  Christy-Lynn eyed the place again, this time more critically. It would be a huge undertaking, but it wasn’t like she had anything else to do with her time. “I think so,” she said at last, the wheels already turning. The renovations would be extensive; new flooring, lighting, shelving. She’d have to gut the café and start over, not to mention hiring a barista who knew how to make a decent latte. The stock was in serious need of updating, and there was nothing to appeal to children, but the place definitely had potential.