“Are you all right?” Rhetta asked. “You look a bit rattled, not that I blame you. This must all come as a terrible shock, as if you haven’t had enough of those already. Can I get you something stronger than lemonade? Made right over the county line. My son would throw seven fits if he knew I kept a jar in the house, but every once in a while, you need a little kick to set you right. I’d be happy to pour you a drop.”
Christy-Lynn shook her head. It would take more than a drop of West Virginia moonshine to set her right. “No,” she managed finally. “No, thank you. I don’t . . . I’m sorry. I have to go.” And just like that, she was off the couch and moving toward the door, suddenly desperate to put as many miles as possible between herself and Riddlesville.
Rhetta got to her feet with a bit of effort. “I’m so sorry about all of this. You seem like a nice woman, certainly not one who deserved to learn what you did today. I know it’s too late, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry Honey caused so much pain. She wasn’t a bad girl, just . . . selfish.”
Christy-Lynn fumbled for a response but could find none. With a curt nod, she stepped out onto the porch, nearly tripping over the geranium pots as she scrambled down the steps and back to the Rover.
She started the engine and managed to make it all the way back to the main road before slamming the car into park and slumping over the wheel. She had come for the truth, and now she had it. Four years. They’d been together four years. And there was a child. The reality was simply too much to grasp.
The shaking hit her all at once, confusion mixed with disbelief coursing through her like poison. Stephen—a father. It was inconceivable, the idea utterly foreign to her concept of the man she had married, the one who hadn’t batted an eye when she said she didn’t want children. But there was no denying it. One look at Iris with her dimpled chin and violet eyes was all the proof she needed.
Had it—had she—been planned? Or was the pregnancy an accident, the by-product of one careless night when passion had eclipsed reason and caution had been thrown to the wind? The thought made her stomach knot, but it was better than revisiting the possibility, as inexcusable as it might be, that the thing that had ultimately driven Stephen into the arms of another woman was the one thing—the only thing—she had ever denied him.
The thought brought a clammy wave of nausea, and for a moment, she thought she might actually be sick. Lowering the window, she sucked in a dizzying breath. She needed to get herself together. She couldn’t just sit in the middle of the road and go to pieces, and at the moment, she was dangerously close to doing just that. She needed to get out of Riddlesville—now.
She was reaching for the gearshift, thinking about calling Missy as she had promised to, when her cell phone went off. She dragged it from her purse and answered without looking, wondering if there really was such a thing as telepathy.
“Missy, I was just about to call you.”
“It’s not Missy.”
“Wade?”
“I was worried about you.”
Something about the simple words caused Christy-Lynn to crumple. She let out a gut-wrenching sob, unable to check the sudden torrent of tears flowing down her cheeks.
“Talk to me, Christy-Lynn. What’s happened? Are you hurt?”
Was she hurt? It was such a ridiculous question she hardly knew how to answer. “No,” she finally managed, gulping down a fresh sob before it could fully form. “Yes . . . I don’t know.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m here.” She paused to wipe her nose on the back of her hand. “I saw her, talked to her.”
“And what else?”
“He has a daughter,” she blurted. “Stephen and Honey had a daughter.”
“Jesus . . .”
“Iris. Her name is Iris.” She closed her eyes, slumping forward to lean her head against the steering wheel. “She’s three.”
“Christy-Lynn, you can’t be sure. It could be—”
“No, it couldn’t. She’s his. I’m sure of it.”
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“So how did you leave it?”
“I didn’t. I just got up and walked out. Rhetta . . . Mrs. Rawlings said she’d answer any questions I had, but then there was Iris, and I couldn’t sit there another minute. I just . . . left.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m in the car, about to head back.”
“Christy-Lynn, you can’t. You’ve been driving all day. You’ve got to be exhausted.”
Her throat ached, and she could barely breathe. “I can’t stay here.”
“Please promise me you won’t drive tonight. Find a motel and get some sleep. You can leave first thing in the morning.” When she said nothing, he prompted her. “Promise me.”
“Yes. Okay. I’ll find a motel.”
“And some food, since I’m guessing you haven’t eaten. I’ll check on you in the morning.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I’ll check on you in the morning,” he repeated firmly.
“All right then.” Her thumb was poised to end the call when she hesitated. “Wade?”
“I’m still here.”
“Thank you.”
“No sweat. Get some rest.”
Christy-Lynn’s room at the Conner Fork Day’s Inn was clean and quiet. She dropped her bags on the bed, stripped out of her clothes, and headed for the shower, determined to scrub away the lingering traces of stale grease and cigarette smoke still clinging to her skin and hair.
She had no idea how long she stood there under the scalding stream or how long it took to finally cry herself out, but eventually she emerged from the bathroom, pink-skinned and spent. She donned a T-shirt and leggings, then flipped on the television, hoping to numb out with an old movie, but it was no use. Like a video on an endless loop, the day’s events kept replaying in her head, and the facts couldn’t be denied.
Stephen and Honey had a little girl, and that little girl was now an orphan. She had assumed Ray Rawlings’s motives for wanting to keep his sister’s sins under wraps had to do with shielding the family from scandal. But maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was about protecting an innocent little girl. The moment Honey’s name was made public the reporters would swarm. It would be only a matter of time before they stumbled onto Iris—a child with a famous father and a mother who wasn’t his wife. Had Stephen given a second thought to what might happen to his daughter in such a case?
And suddenly it was there—the question she’d been trying not to ask herself. How had Stephen taken the news that he was going to be a father? Had he been angry? Horrified? Or was it possible the idea of a child had actually appealed to him, that in some dark and ambivalent corner of his alpha male psyche, part of him longed to leave a piece of himself to the world?
Or maybe the questions she should be asking weren’t about Stephen at all, but about herself? Was there some part of her—some broken or missing part—that had prevented her from seeing that Stephen needed more? Had she been so busy trying to outrun her own scars that she had missed the signs? Or had the affair been exactly what it looked like, a midlife crisis with a celebrity-struck, surgically enhanced blonde, the child a mere afterthought? Was it only obligation that had bound them together, or had it gone deeper? The only two people who could answer those questions were dead.
But there was Rhetta.
She had come to Riddlesville for answers, but there was still so much she didn’t know, things she’d never gotten around to asking. Was she really willing to go back to Sweetwater without knowing all of it? And if so, why had she bothered to come at all? The question continued to churn long after she had slipped between the thin hotel sheets and switched off the light.
The water is icy, a million needles prickling at her skin. And murky. Like tea or dirty dishwater. There is a light in the distance—no, a pair of lights—dismal points in the watery gloom. Lying lifeless alo
ng the bottom is a hulk of cold bent metal. A face looms behind a square of glass, blue-white and familiar, pale hair fanned out around her head like a halo. She floats there with eyes closed, a grisly mermaid, the sunken place at her temple strangely bloodless. And then suddenly, her eyes are not closed. They’re wide and glassy, vivid violet through all that water. And then the blue-tinged lips begin to move. It’s a strange thing to be aware that you’re dreaming, to know what’s coming and not be able to wake yourself or at least look away. A surreal and terrible déjà vu. Except tonight the dream is different. There’s a new face peering out at her through the glass, a tiny face with vivid violet eyes—a small, bright echo of the other. She does not speak at first. Her mouth is closed, silent. And then she begins to cry, a miserable wail through all that water—Nonny! Her face is suddenly filled with terror, her hands splayed in panic against the glass. It’s too much to see, too much to hear. And then, with lungs near bursting, she is swimming away from the tiny face, the terrible wail growing fainter as she claws her way madly toward the surface.
Christy-Lynn sat bolt upright in bed, drenched and gulping for air, the echo of Iris’s pale face still fresh in her mind. Please God, not the child too. Her heart battered her ribs as she dragged her eyes to the clock on the nightstand, the numbers glowing blue in the unfamiliar dark: 11:15.
Kicking off the sheets, she padded to the bathroom, sponged her face and neck with cold water, then stripped off her sweat-drenched clothes and climbed back into bed. She was about to reach for the TV remote when she spied her phone charging next to the bed. She pulled up Missy’s number, then peered at the clock again. It was long past the boys’ bedtime, which meant Missy was probably already passed out, exhausted after a day at the inn, followed by an evening of baths and homework. On impulse she scrolled down to Wade’s number. He’d put it there, after all, in case she needed to talk. And she did.
He picked up after a single ring. “Please tell me you’re not driving.”
Christy-Lynn dragged the sheet up reflexively at the sound of his voice, covering her bare breasts. “No, I’m not driving.” There was a pause. He was waiting for her to say more, except she didn’t really have any new information since the last time they’d spoken. “I ate,” she said lamely.
“Good. But why aren’t you asleep?”
“I’m sorry. It’s late. I shouldn’t have called.”
“I didn’t mean that. I just meant I was hoping you’d get some rest.”
“Not going to happen, I’m afraid.”
“Can’t sleep?”
“Ghosts,” she said quietly. “She showed up in the dream tonight too.”
“The little girl?”
“Iris,” she told him softly. “Her name is Iris. And yes. I can’t stop thinking about her. There’s so much I don’t know, things I never got the chance to ask.”
“At the risk of sounding heartless, why would you want to know anything else?”
Christy-Lynn raked a hand through her bangs. How did she make him understand when she didn’t understand herself? “Honestly, I’m not sure I do. But I’m here now, so I was thinking . . .”
“Oh, God . . .”
“I was thinking about going back. If Rhetta will still talk to me after the way I walked out. I’m just not sure I can handle seeing Iris again.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe it’s time to just let this go and come home like you said you were going to.”
“I don’t think I can. Not until I know the rest of it.”
“The rest of what, Christy-Lynn? They had an affair. What else is there?”
“What else is there?” she echoed, aware that she sounded faintly hysterical. “There’s a child. One Stephen never told anyone about and never bothered to provide for. Never once did he bring up the idea of us having a baby. Not once in eight years. But he had a daughter with Honey. Did the child mean anything to him, or was she just a mistake, an accident he wasn’t willing to own?”
Another sigh, softer this time. “Why are you doing this, Christy-Lynn? Torturing yourself like this? It’s over.”
Christy-Lynn closed her eyes, knees hugged to her chest. “I know you don’t understand. You couldn’t. And you don’t need to. But there are reasons I need to know what happened and why, things I need to figure out. So for me, it isn’t over. Why do you care anyway?”
“Because it’s what he did—what he always did. He swooped in, took what he wanted, and then made it someone else’s fault. And now I see you falling right into it, taking the blame because he was a snake. You deserve better than that.”
The remark took Christy-Lynn by surprise. “How do you know?”
There was a long pause, as if he were hunting for an answer. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I just do. Look, you’re tired. Try to sleep if you can and then come home. You’ve got something here, something that’s yours. Maybe that’s what you should focus on. Not the past. And not someone else’s mistakes. The future.”
“All right.”
“Call me when you get on the road.”
“I will.”
But even as she ended the call, she knew she wouldn’t be heading home first thing in the morning.
TWENTY-SIX
If Rhetta was surprised to find Christy-Lynn standing on her porch again the next morning, she hid it well. She was still in her housecoat and slippers when she answered the door. “I suspected you’d be back.”
Christy-Lynn ran her tongue over her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. “About yesterday—I’m sorry about walking out like that. I was just . . .”
The sound of cartoons mingled with the aroma of frying bacon drifted out onto the front porch. “I’ve got breakfast going for Iris if you’re hungry.”
Christy-Lynn shook her head. Food was the last thing on her mind. “No, thank you. I just have a few more questions.”
“Yes, I thought you might.” She pulled back the door and stepped aside. “Come on in then and let me get her fed.”
Iris sat cross-legged in front of the television, clutching a bedraggled teddy bear to her chest. Her hair was still sleep-tangled, her eyes glued to the screen. Christy-Lynn fought down a shudder as snatches of the previous night’s dream came flooding back. That tiny face, frantic behind the glass. What in God’s name was she doing here?
“Coffee?” Rhetta offered as Christy-Lynn followed her into the tiny kitchen.
“Yes. If it’s ready.”
Rhetta filled a thick brown mug and set it on the table along with a spoon and a half gallon of milk. “Sugar’s there if you take it.”
Christy-Lynn took a seat, pouring a splash of milk into her mug as she watched Rhetta crack a single egg into a bowl and give it a quick scramble before pouring it into the pan. Her hands trembled as she worked, but she moved with the ease of a woman who had prepared her share of breakfasts. Moments later, she turned the egg out onto a plate, added two slices of bacon, and disappeared into the living room with Iris’s breakfast.
She was a bit winded when she returned, her lips parted and grayish. “I don’t like for her to eat in front of the television,” she said, filling a mug for herself and joining Christy-Lynn at the table. “But this way, we’ll have the kitchen to ourselves.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, it’s not the kind of talk a child should hear, is it?”
“No, I suppose not.”
Rhetta splashed some milk into her coffee, then dropped in a heaping spoonful of sugar. “So,” she said, still stirring. “Here we are again.”
“Yes. Here we are. A friend of mine thinks I’m crazy for coming here. He doesn’t understand why I need to know all the gritty details.”
“No, a man wouldn’t. But I do. You need to make sense of it.”
Christy-Lynn nodded, relieved to at last be understood. “Yes.”
Rhetta’s eyes slid away, watery blue and suddenly full of memory. “I was married once, a million years ago. Men haven’t changed all that much since my ti
me. Women either. We still try to make everything our fault.”
“I guess what I really need to know is . . . why.”
“Good luck figuring that out.”
“Now you sound like Wade.”
“Your friend?”
“Yes. He thinks I’m a glutton for punishment, and maybe I am. It’s certainly a strange thing to be confronted with—the child of your husband’s mistress.”
“I didn’t mean for you to find out about Iris. That was an accident. She’s been through enough without having to figure out who you are. She doesn’t understand where her mama’s gone, not that her mama was around all that much.”
“Where was she?”
Rhetta sighed, a hoarse, tired rasp. “Who knows. With him, somewhere. I told you Honey had her heart set on being an actress. Where she came up with that idea, I’ll never know, but that was her dream. She took a few acting classes in high school and at the community college, even did a commercial for a furniture store here in town. She wasn’t very good, but she was pretty, and I guess she thought that was enough because off she went to find him.” Rhetta rose and shuffled to the counter, returning with the coffeepot to top off their mugs. “Groupies, they used to call them in my day, but that was for singers and movie stars. I didn’t know writers had them too.”
For an instant, Christy-Lynn was transported back to the day she bumped into Stephen in the hall at Lloyd and Griffin. If possible, he had been even better-looking than the author photo on the back of his novels, and with his polished smile and easy patter, he had positively oozed charm. It wasn’t hard to imagine a girl like Honey, ambitious, starry-eyed, and desperate for a ticket out of Riddlesville, succumbing to that combination—as she herself had.
“My husband had a way of collecting people,” she said finally. “Like a magnet. I used to think it was unconscious. Now I realize he knew exactly what he was doing. Funny what you can see in the rearview mirror.”
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