Christy-Lynn made a face as she handed him her cookie. “You read it.”
Wade fumbled with the wrapper, dropping crumbs all over the clean counter in the process, but eventually managed to liberate the tiny scrap of paper. “Salvation lies in doing the thing that frightens us most.” He cocked his head. “Mean anything?”
“Not really. But everything frightens me lately.”
He studied her a moment, shaken and vulnerable in her oversize robe. So beautiful. And strong in ways she hadn’t begun to grasp. “I think you must be one of the bravest women I know,” he said with an intensity that startled him.
Christy-Lynn seemed startled as well, her smile fragile and yet strangely incandescent. Suddenly, Wade found himself fighting an overwhelming desire to touch her cheek. It had probably been a while since she’d been touched, held—kissed. It had been a while for him too.
Jesus! What was he thinking? He took a step back, horrified by the direction of his thoughts. Support, empathy, even friendship were perfectly acceptable reactions to her situation, but he’d just gone down a completely different road, and he needed to do a U-turn ASAP.
Christy-Lynn reached for his arm as he prepared to step away. Her fingers were still cool from the dishwater. “Thank you for the food. You’ve been very . . . kind.”
Before he could stop himself, he took her hand, pressing the bit of paper that contained her fortune into her palm. “I meant what I said. You really are one of the bravest women I know. You’ll get past this. I promise. In the meantime, if you need someone to talk to or just someone to eat takeout with, you know where to find me.”
TWENTY-NINE
Sweetwater, Virginia
June 10, 2017
With summer approaching, Christy-Lynn had shifted her energies from the store, which was humming along nicely, to transforming the bungalow into a real home. Now, as she eyed the remaining cartons in the living room, she could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. With any luck, she’d have them sorted by the end of the day.
She thought of Wade’s reaction the other night—Are you moving?—and felt a twinge of guilt. She’d been avoiding him since the great Chinese food debacle, going so far as hiding out in the back room when he stopped by the store for coffee.
She should have called the next day to thank him for the takeout, but she hadn’t been able to make herself pick up the phone. It felt like the kind of thing you did after a date, not after lapsing into a crying jag over soggy eggrolls. She had never been the type to go to pieces, and yet that’s exactly what she’d done with Wade. But she hadn’t been able to get Iris out of her head. In fact, she still couldn’t.
She had no idea how much a social security check for someone like Rhetta might run, but it couldn’t be much. Certainly not enough to raise a child on. And now that Stephen was dead, the monthly allowance he used to give Honey had stopped, which meant there were things Iris would have to do without. Things like books, doctors, medicine—a roof that wasn’t patched with plywood.
The thought infuriated her. That Stephen had died without a will should have surprised her but didn’t. Death was for mere mortals, not bestselling authors with adoring fans and millions in the bank. But all that should have changed when Iris came along. And maybe it had. It was a long shot, but maybe he’d made some separate arrangement to provide for Iris that his lawyer had purposely omitted from their conversations and had yet to execute.
She dug her phone out of her purse and pulled up Peter Hagan’s number. She was surprised when the receptionist put her straight through. “Peter, it’s Christy . . . Christine.”
“Christine, it’s good to hear from you. How’ve you been getting along?”
“I’m fine. Look, I have a question. I know Stephen didn’t have an actual will, but I was wondering if there was some piece of paper somewhere, something you didn’t tell me about.”
“I’m sorry?”
Christy-Lynn tried to analyze his tone. Was he playing dumb? Purposely being coy? “I know about Iris,” she said flatly.
“Who?”
“Iris Rawlings. Stephen’s daughter.”
There was a long pause, though she couldn’t say whether it was of the awkward or confused variety. “Peter?”
“I’m sorry, Christine. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Look, you don’t need to protect him anymore. I know everything.”
“Then you obviously know more than I do. If there’s a daughter somewhere, Stephen never mentioned her to me.”
“How do I know you’re not lying?”
“You don’t. But I’m telling you as a friend that Stephen never approached me about any kind of estate planning. Not for you and certainly not for a child.”
“Do you know the name Honey Rawlings?”
“I’m afraid not. Should I?”
“She was the woman in the car with Stephen the night he died.”
“I wasn’t aware that she’d been identified.”
“She hasn’t—officially. But that was her name.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I just do. And I’d like to keep that between us.”
“Of course, but where are you going with this?”
“Stephen and this woman had a child, Peter. A little girl named Iris. So I thought maybe he’d made some kind of provision, in case anything ever happened. She’s living with her great-grandmother in West Virginia, but with Stephen gone, there’s no money. It’s terrible.”
“Christine.” Peter paused to clear his throat and perhaps frame his response. “Let me caution you in the strongest terms against getting involved here. For starters, you have absolutely no way of knowing if this little girl—”
“Iris.”
“Yes, all right, Iris. We have no way of knowing if Stephen is actually Iris’s father. Your concern is admirable, but you have no idea what kind of people come out of the woodwork when someone of Stephen’s stature dies. For all we know, this is just some hard luck story conjured up to con money from you. It happens all the time.”
“This isn’t a con, Peter. I’m sure of it.”
“How?” he said, clearly frustrated. “How can you possibly be sure?”
“Because I know my own husband’s face when it’s looking back at me.”
“You’ve . . . seen her?”
“Last weekend. I drove to West Virginia. Iris is Stephen’s daughter.”
“And that,” Peter said tightly, “is exactly the kind of thing you shouldn’t be saying out loud. It could be seen as an admission of paternity and open a lot of very expensive doors. I’m sure your heart is in the right place, but there are established ways—legal ways—to handle these things, and until we avail ourselves of those, I strongly suggest you remove yourself from the situation.”
“I don’t need a test,” she shot back. “And no one’s asked me for a dime.”
“Christine, please. As your lawyer, I’m telling you this could get sticky.”
“It’s long past sticky, Peter, but thanks. I found out what I needed to know.”
He was still talking when she ended the call.
In the kitchen, she retrieved one of the blank note cards Carol had left in the drawer near the phone and began to write.
Rhetta,
I wanted to thank you again for your kindness the other day. I know my presence was an unwelcome reminder of your loss, and that our conversation must have been as painful for you as it was for me. Our losses are not the same, but the pain we feel is real, and I regret that our paths had to cross in such an unpleasant way. Please accept this small token of my appreciation, and my best wishes for you and Iris. It cannot make up for the loss you’ve suffered, nor is it meant to. But I do hope it will help make the care of your great-granddaughter a little easier.
Regards,
Christine Ludlow
When she finished the note, she made out a check for $10,000, then slipped it inside the note card, trying not to think
about Peter Hagan’s reaction should he get wind of the gesture. Legally, Stephen’s estate didn’t owe Iris a cent. But legal obligations and moral ones were two very different things.
THIRTY
Riddlesville, West Virginia
June 17, 2017
Christy-Lynn’s stomach heaved as she passed the Riddlesville town limits sign. She was clearly out of her mind, but someone had to talk some sense into Rhetta Rawlings, and since the woman didn’t have a phone, that meant a road trip.
She’d been stunned to receive Rhetta’s note, thanking her in thin, spidery script for her kind wishes, but explaining that she couldn’t possibly accept charity from the woman her granddaughter had wronged. But how could it be charity? Iris was Stephen’s daughter, his own flesh and blood. That he hadn’t bothered to plan for her future didn’t change the fact that the check—and so much more—was absolutely Iris’s due.
She had no trouble finding Rhetta’s house this time, though she’d hoped her memory of the despair hanging over the place had been exaggerated. It hadn’t. But then, that’s why she was here—to help alleviate some of that despair.
Rhetta’s eyes shot wide as she opened the door. “What on earth?”
“You don’t have a phone,” Christy-Lynn blurted as if that explained everything. “Is this a bad time?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Bad time for what?”
“I’m here about the check. I want to explain.”
Rhetta shuffled back a few steps, an unspoken invitation for Christy-Lynn to come in. Iris was stretched out on the living room rug, head bent over a coloring book. She looked up when Christy-Lynn walked in, her pale face guarded.
“Iris, honey?” Rhetta said in her phlegmy voice. “Do you remember Christy-Lynn? She’s come back to visit Nonny.”
Iris made no reply, not so much as a blink from those wide, luminous eyes.
Christy-Lynn managed to find a smile. “Hello, Iris,” she said gently, afraid the child might bolt like a frightened deer. “That’s a lovely fish you’re coloring. Pink fish are my favorite.”
Iris glanced down at the pink crayon in her fist as if surprised to find it there.
“She’s having one of her quiet days,” Rhetta whispered apologetically. “Let’s go into the kitchen. I just finished making a pitcher of tea.”
“I promise I won’t be long,” Christy-Lynn said when she spotted a large stockpot bubbling on the stove. “I know it’s almost dinnertime.”
Rhetta’s gnarled hands shook as she wrestled with the tea pitcher, sloshing a fair amount onto the counter as she filled two glasses, then handed one to Christy-Lynn. “I have to say, I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“I didn’t expect to be here, but when I got your letter, I knew I had to come. I’m wondering why you sent back the check.”
“I told you in the letter. We can’t take your charity.”
“But it isn’t charity. It’s no different than the money Stephen used to give Honey to help with Iris.”
“It absolutely is different.” Rhetta’s chin wobbled with something like defiance, her blue eyes suddenly clear and sharp. “That was Stephen’s money, his to do with as he pleased. But he’s not here anymore, which means that money legally belongs to you. We’ve got no right to it.”
“Rhetta,” Christy-Lynn said, lowering her voice to blunt her frustration. “As I’m sure you know, my husband was a very wealthy man. It isn’t right that he never bothered to provide for his daughter. I’m trying to correct that—if you’ll let me.”
“It isn’t right.”
“It is. In fact, it’s the only thing about this whole situation that is right.” Christy-Lynn reached into her purse for the check and slid it across the vinyl tablecloth. “Please . . . take it.”
Rhetta closed her eyes, giving her grizzled head a firm shake. If possible, she looked even wearier than she had the last time, worn thin by the day-to-day trials of caring for a child with emotional problems.
“It isn’t money that girl needs,” she said, tracing a yellowed thumbnail through the sweat on her tea glass. “She needs someone who’s going to be there for her. Even when Honey was alive, she didn’t have that.”
“She’s lucky to have you,” Christy-Lynn said feebly.
Rhetta glanced up from her glass, pain etched in the lines on either side of her mouth. “But for how long?”
It was Christy-Lynn’s turn to avert her gaze. It was the elephant in the room, after all. The question about what would happen to Iris when Rhetta was no longer able to care for her.
“Been thinking about it a lot since your last visit,” Rhetta said heavily.
“And?”
“And nothing.” Her lower lip began to quiver. “She’s a handful, poor thing, between not talking and not sleeping. It’s not her fault, but when you get to be my age, it’s a lot to manage.”
Without thinking, Christy-Lynn reached for Rhetta’s hand. “That’s why you need to take the check, Rhetta. You could get some help in, maybe find a counselor to help Iris cope with everything that’s happened. Things would be easier for you both.”
“Who would I get around here?”
“Maybe there are people at the county who could help or at least suggest someone you could hire. A kind of home health aide.”
A look of horror rippled over Rhetta’s weathered countenance. “Just what I need, a bunch of government do-gooders knowing I’m too old to take care of my own. Next thing I know, they’ll be swooping in to take her. I’m not saying it won’t come to that someday. It may well. But I’ll be dead when it does, and it will be . . . out of my hands.”
Christy-Lynn fought back a shudder. She was right. Old, infirm, and living well below the poverty line, Rhetta Rawlings wouldn’t be anyone’s idea of an ideal guardian, kin or not.
“Maybe Ray could put out a few feelers at church for someone to help with meals, laundry, that kind of thing.”
Rhetta snorted. “He doesn’t even want me bringing her to church. As far as he’s concerned, Honey’s already brought enough shame to the Rawlings name—as if a Rawlings ever amounted to anything in this town.”
Christy-Lynn experienced a fresh wave of disgust for Ray Rawlings. “He doesn’t want his niece going to church?”
“Not his church, no. Says he doesn’t need me sticking Honey’s brat in everyone’s faces, reminding his congregation what she was. His own sister—” Her voice broke. She looked down at her glass.
“Rhetta, that’s terrible.”
She blinked hard as she turned to stare out the kitchen window. “I used to think he’d change his mind, that his heart would soften toward Iris in time, but it hasn’t. And it won’t. He means what he says.” She shook her head, eyes closing briefly. “So where does that leave Iris?”
“I don’t know, Rhetta. I wish I did. But at least take the check. It won’t solve everything, but it’ll help you get by until you figure things out. And before you say it, this isn’t charity. It’s hers or should have been. Plus a whole lot more. Please, say you’ll take it.”
The tears that had been trembling on Rhetta’s lower lashes finally spilled over. “Mrs. Ludlow . . .” Something like a cough escaped her as she dropped her head into her hands. “I don’t know how . . . your astonishing kindness . . .”
Christy-Lynn slid a hand across the table, capturing both of Rhetta’s, her fingers gnarled and startlingly fragile. “Please don’t cry, Rhetta. We’ll find someone to help you look after Iris. I promise. And you need to call me Christy-Lynn.”
Something, some sound or bit of movement, seeped into Christy-Lynn’s awareness. She peered over her shoulder and saw Iris hovering in the doorway, eyes glued to the women holding hands across the tiny kitchen table.
Rhetta noticed her too and quickly mopped her eyes. “Iris, baby, I didn’t hear you come in. Do you need some juice?”
Iris stood there a moment with her hands behind her back, as if she were trying to puzzle something out. Finally
she inched forward, hesitant but clearly determined on some course of action.
“What is it, Iris?” Rhetta asked, clearly mystified by her great-granddaughter’s behavior. “What have you got there?”
Iris didn’t answer. Instead, she took another halting step, then whipped a sheet of paper from behind her back and held it out to Christy-Lynn. “Pink fishes are my favorite too,” she blurted in lispy toddlerese, before scurrying from the kitchen.
Rhetta sat speechless, a hand pressed to her mouth as she stared at the messy pink Nemo her great-granddaughter had just bestowed on Christy-Lynn. “Six words,” she said quietly, counting them off on gnarled fingers. “That’s the most she’s said at a stretch in I don’t know how long.”
Christy-Lynn wasn’t sure how to respond, or how to process the unfamiliar wave of emotion she had just experienced. “She was just mimicking me,” she told Rhetta sheepishly. “Because I told her I like pink fish.”
Rhetta was smiling, the first genuine smile Christy-Lynn had ever seen cross her face. “She likes you.”
“She was just being sweet. She doesn’t even know me.”
“Oh, I think she does.” There was a strange gravity to Rhetta’s words, an unsettling weight that made Christy-Lynn go very still. “Children know things, like who’s kind and who’s not, who’s genuine and who’s not. She knows exactly who you are, Christy-Lynn.” Rhetta’s voice fractured again, and she cleared her throat. “We both do.”
THIRTY-ONE
Sweetwater, Virginia
June 24, 2017
Christy-Lynn shot straight up in bed, adrenaline still pumping like needles through her limbs. It took a few moments for the stark physicality of the dream to fade—not that it ever did entirely. The swimming faces and garbled words were always within easy reach, a dark and watery backdrop to her waking hours. She had hoped convincing Rhetta to accept the check would end or at least reduce their frequency. Instead, the dreams seemed to be coming more frequently, leaving her too wired to go back to sleep and in a near zombielike state the next morning.
Eventually, her heart began to slow, and she noticed the steady drum of rain against the windows. Lying back, she closed her eyes, willing her mind to quiet, but it was no good. Every nerve in her body was on alert, like violin strings tuned too tightly.
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