“A Russian cat. And literary. I like it.”
“He showed up one night in the middle of a storm. He’s basically been here ever since. He certainly seems to like you.”
“Yeah, it’s a thing I have. Animals love me. Kids too.” He shot her a lopsided grin. “It’s the grown-ups I have trouble with, as you’ve no doubt witnessed.”
“I take it that’s a reference to the alumni dinner?”
Wade rolled his eyes. “Talk about first impressions. Simone knew I was edgy about seeing Stephen again. She thought a little Jameson might loosen me up.” He raked a hand through his hair then shook his head. “Boy, did it ever.”
“Will you tell me what happened between you and Stephen?”
“No point, really. It was a long time ago. Besides, you said you wanted to talk to me.”
Christy-Lynn stood abruptly, carried her plate to the sink, and then busied herself with preparing a pot of coffee. When she finally pressed the brew button, she turned to face him. “I’ve been thinking of setting up a trust for Iris.”
Wade stared at her, letting the revelation land. She’d said it so plainly, without any kind of preamble, as if giving away fists full of money to your husband’s love child was the most normal thing in the world.
“What kind of trust?”
“I want to set it up so Stephen’s royalties automatically go into it. There would be monthly disbursements to pay for living expenses, school, whatever she needs. And then later college if she wants it.”
He said nothing for a time, running through the possible pitfalls in his head. It wasn’t a short list. Finally, he stood and carried his plate to the counter. Christy-Lynn was avoiding his gaze, fussing with mugs and cream and sugar.
“Have you thought this through, Christy-Lynn? I mean really thought it through?”
“I had just hung up with Stephen’s attorney when you came into the store today.”
“So . . . that’s a yes.”
“It’s the right thing to do, Wade. I don’t want Stephen’s money. Or anything that reminds me of him.”
“His daughter isn’t a reminder?”
“Yes,” she said, not looking at him as she filled two mugs. “She is. Every time I look at her, I see Stephen. And Honey. And it hurts. But someone has to take responsibility for the man’s child.”
“And you think that someone is you?”
“You didn’t see where she’s living, Wade—how she’s living. She’s three years old. She’s going to need things. Who’s going to give them to her? Rhetta? That bastard uncle of hers? If I can make sure she grows up with a decent roof over her head, with an education and some sense of opportunity, why wouldn’t I do it?”
“Sounds like you’ve made up your mind. Why bring me into it?”
“I don’t know really. Because I’ve told you everything else, I suppose. And because I knew what you’d say but wanted to hear it anyway. You may not believe it, but I value your advice, even if I don’t always take it. I don’t want to do something stupid, but I do want to do what’s right.”
She spooned a bit of sugar into one of the mugs and handed it to him, then doctored her own and wandered into the living room, leaving him to follow. There was another growl of thunder—a long, low rumble that vibrated through the floor and walls, followed by the splat of raindrops against the front windows. Christy-Lynn pulled back the curtains, peering out briefly, then settled herself on the love seat.
“So let’s have it,” she said flatly. “Give me your opinion.”
Wade dropped down beside her, sipping thoughtfully while he tried to corral his thoughts. “What you’re talking about is incredibly gracious,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I’d just make sure you’re looking at the whole board. Right now this little girl is all you can think about, and that’s laudable, but what about down the road? There’s a chance you could end up regretting this—or maybe resenting is a better word.”
Christy-Lynn stared into her mug, thoughts clearly churning. “It’s just money,” she said at last. “Money I don’t even want.”
Wade looked at her hard, wondering if she’d thought about the long-term implications of what she was proposing. “Christy-Lynn, if you do this thing, if you set up this trust, you’re tying yourself to that girl—to Stephen’s daughter by another woman—for the next fifteen years. Are you really prepared to do that?”
Her chin came up sharply. “Don’t you think I’ve asked myself that? The truth is I don’t know. I just know I’m not prepared to stand by and do nothing.”
“What did the attorney say when you told him what you wanted to do?”
“Exactly what you’d expect a lawyer to say. That I’m jumping the gun. That I’m letting my emotions get in the way. He thinks I should hire an investigator to check out Honey’s family, to make sure I’m not being scammed.”
Wade tugged thoughtfully at his lower lip. “It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. You’re talking about a lot of money. It never hurts to be careful.”
Christy-Lynn let out a sigh. “Exactly what am I supposed to investigate? Rhetta Rawlings is an octogenarian who lives in a shack and chain-smokes generic cigarettes. What do you think she’s going to do with the money? Buy a Cadillac? Put in a pool? So what if she does?”
“And the uncle?”
Christy-Lynn didn’t bother to hide her disgust. “Reverend Rawlings is far too pious to dirty his hands with Stephen’s money. He’s more concerned with distancing himself from his sister’s sins.”
“Don’t be so sure, Christy-Lynn. Money changes things. Especially people. Look, I’m not trying to tell you what to do. It’s your decision. All I’m saying is don’t rush into it while your emotions are still raw. Take some time and think it through before you pull the trigger.”
Christy-Lynn nodded somberly. “That’s why I asked you over tonight, to be my sounding board. But right now my head is starting to throb. Do you think we could talk about something else?”
“For instance?”
“I don’t know. Your book. We’ve never really done that.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. Anything. How long have you been working on it?”
“Twenty years, give or take.”
Christy-Lynn’s eyes went wide. “Twenty years?”
“Give or take. I started it back when I was in college and then—” He paused, clearing his throat roughly. “Let’s just say I decided to go in another direction.”
“Stephen said you got bored and switched to journalism.”
Wade felt the familiar pulse begin to tick along his temple, the old anger flaring to life. “Did he?”
“That isn’t what happened?”
“No.”
“Then tell me what did.”
“Let’s just say I became . . . disillusioned.”
She nodded, pausing to peer out at the steadily falling rain. “I hear that a lot from my writers, particularly after a fresh rejection lands in the in-box. You need thick skin, no doubt about that. But you’re back at it now, and you seem pretty focused. What’s it about?”
“Not sure really. Over the years, it’s sort of gotten away from me. I was nineteen when I started the damn thing.” He laughed, a harsh sound that sent Tolstoy scurrying. “I was a dreamer back then. I was going to write the great American novel.”
“What happened?”
“That change of direction I mentioned.” He drained his mug then dangled it between his knees. “Back in college, the words used to pour out, but journalism uses an entirely different set of writing muscles. I had no idea it would be so hard to find my fiction chops again.”
“And have you?”
“Maybe. But they’re still pretty flabby. Something’s not working, and I can’t get past it. I’m stuck.”
“At the risk of sounding condescending, I’d be happy to take a look at it, maybe make a few suggestions. Sometimes fresh eyes are all you need. Though given our histor
y, you might feel weird about it.”
“I think we’re past that, don’t you? We’ve eaten each other’s cooking, and I think your cat has a crush on me.” He paused, grinning down at the floor where Tolstoy had reappeared and was now turning circles around his ankles. “We’re practically family.”
She smiled grimly as she collected their empty mugs and headed for the kitchen. “It’s ironic, don’t you think, that after all these years you’d be the one I’d end up dragging into this thing with Iris? I know you think I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. It certainly feels like I have.”
“You haven’t lost your mind,” he assured her as he gathered the remaining utensils from the table and dropped them into the sink. “You’re human. And much stronger than you think. Maybe the next time you feel like beating yourself up you should remember that. Now,” he said, grabbing the dish towel, “whose turn is it to dry?”
Neither spoke as they worked, Christy-Lynn wielding the sponge, Wade the towel, and yet there was a strange comfort in the rhythm, a kind of domestic ballet he found pleasing, the accidental brush of hips, the touch of wet fingers. Not a sensual connection—not exactly—but intimate somehow. It was about a simple moment shared, the comfort of another person standing beside him. It made him realize just how isolated his life had become over the last year. Safe but empty. But wasn’t that what he’d been looking for when he came running back to Sweetwater? Now, suddenly, he wasn’t so sure.
When they finished, she walked him to the door and out onto the porch. The rain was coming down hard now, billowing in ragged sheets across the yard. The ride home was going to be tricky, but first he had to get himself off the porch, and suddenly his legs didn’t want to move.
“So . . . thanks for dinner,” he said awkwardly.
“Thanks for coming. And for listening.”
“What are friends for?”
“Yeah, well.” She was shifting from foot to foot, staring down at her bare toes. “I’m still pretty new at the friend thing.”
He studied her a moment in the dim porch light, her face nearly lost in shadow. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say that before—they’re new at the friend thing.”
“I guess it would sound funny to most people, but I learned to keep my distance at an early age. A survival mechanism, you might say. I’m working on it, though. Another thirty years and I should about have it mastered.”
She smiled then, a genuine smile that chased the shadows from her face, and for an instant, he was reminded of the time he’d gone cliff diving in Mexico, the dizzy, breathtaking moment he’d kicked away from solid ground and fallen out into space—praying the whole way down.
“I’m willing to wait,” he said quietly.
Her smile flickered and went out. “I’m not sure I’m worth the wait. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a bit of a wreck right now. Lots of baggage.”
He leaned in then, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll risk it.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Sweetwater, Virginia
July 4, 2017
With the exception of Christmas, Independence Day was by far Sweetwater’s favorite holiday, and this year, Christy-Lynn found herself smack-dab in the middle of the festivities. It was hard not to get caught up in the enthusiasm as she scanned the crowd gathered on the drilling green to witness the annual reading of the Declaration of Independence.
She was looking for Missy and the boys when she spotted Wade just a few yards away, his phone to his ear. He ended the call when he spotted her, smiling as he made his way over.
“Fancy meeting you here.” He nodded toward her American flag tank top. “I see you dressed for the occasion.”
“I did.” She smiled as she surveyed the crowd. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Taking time to remember what it’s all about, hearing the words read aloud. Even the kids seem to love it.”
Wade nodded as he followed her gaze. “I’d forgotten how much this town loves the Fourth. My grandfather used to bring me when I was a kid. I’d pretend I was bored, too cool for parades, but I loved it. I think he knew. Not much got past the old man.”
They were meandering toward the sidewalk now, flowing with the throng of families scouting shady spots to watch the parade. Christy-Lynn grinned as a pair of twins wearing matching yellow sunglasses scampered past. “Did you come from a big family?”
“Not big. One sister, but we were close. My father died when I was three. I don’t really remember him. My mom still has pictures of him everywhere, so I have a memory of his face, or at least what feels like a memory.”
“I’m sorry.”
Wade shrugged. “You can’t miss what you never had.”
She shot him a quick glance. “You don’t think so?”
Another shrug. “Maybe it’s because I had my grandfather. He stepped in when my mother went back to work and sort of took me under his wing. What about you? What was your family like?”
“I didn’t have a family,” she said bluntly. “It was just my mother and me.”
“Two people can’t be a family?”
She could feel his eyes and knew he was waiting for an explanation. Instead, she pointed across the street where a vendor with a shiny metal cart was hawking frozen lemonade. “I’m hot. How about you?”
She didn’t wait for an answer before dashing across the street, winding her way through the throng until she reached the cart. She ordered two and handed one to Wade. “Happy Fourth of July.”
As if on cue, the Sweetwater High School marching band began moving down the center of Main Street, kicking off the parade with a warbling rendition of “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”
Stephen had taken her to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade once, not long after they were married. She had been dazzled, overwhelmed by the seemingly endless sights and sounds. But now, as she watched Sweetwater’s homegrown procession of toilet paper floats and sequined majorettes move past, she couldn’t remember ever feeling such delight. In fact, she almost hated to see it end, cheering and clapping along with the rest of the crowd as the parade moved off down Main Street.
“That was so much fun!”
Wade took her empty cup, tossing it into a nearby trash can. “What are you doing later?”
Christy-Lynn shielded her eyes as she looked up at him. “I’ve been toying with starting a book club at the store. I was going to work on a flyer to help gauge interest. Why?”
“I’ve been thinking about your offer to look at my manuscript, and I think I’d like to take you up on it. You could come by a little later. It’s my turn to cook.”
The invitation took Christy-Lynn by surprise. When she made the offer to look at his manuscript, she hadn’t really thought about what might happen if he accepted. Nor had she considered the possible fallout if the book turned out to be bad. She’d been coaching writers long enough to know that many who claimed to want the truth actually wanted anything but.
“In the interest of full disclosure, you should know I have a tendency to shoot from the hip,” she warned. “Are you sure that’s what you’re looking for?”
“If I was looking for a pat on the back, I’d just send it to my mother. I need to know if I’m wasting my time. And I promise to let you off the hook if you decide it’s just too terrible to read. At least you’ll get a meal out of it.”
“All right. I’ll be there around six. That’ll give me a few hours to work on the flyer. Should I bring anything?”
He grinned sheepishly as he stepped off the curb, preparing to cross the street. “An open mind.”
Christy-Lynn was still feeling anxious as she pulled into Wade’s driveway. Stephen had made no bones about the fact that Wade was talented—or had been back when they were in college. But that was twenty years ago. Wade himself had admitted struggling to get his chops back. The question was had he succeeded, and if not, did she want to be the one to tell him?
“Come on through. I’m out on the deck.”
Wade’s voice
startled her, bleeding through the screen door before she could lift a hand to knock. She left her purse on the kitchen table and stepped out onto the deck where he was scrubbing a grill grate with a wire brush and a bucket of soapy water. He was barefoot, wearing a faded University of Virginia T-shirt and jeans that were drenched from the knees down.
“Excuse the mess. I thought I’d give the thing a good cleaning since I was having company.”
“Can I help?”
“Not unless you want to ruin those white pants. You can go in and get us something to drink, though. I’ll take a beer.”
A few minutes later, she returned with a bottled water and the requested beer. Wade dropped the brush into the bucket and grabbed his beer with wet hands. “Listen, I started thinking about it on the way home, and I realized you were probably just being polite the other night. I don’t want to be the writer who foists his work on everyone he meets, so if you want to back out, no worries.”
“You aren’t foisting anything on me. I volunteered.”
“I saw your face this afternoon. You looked as if you’d just stepped into oncoming traffic.”
“I think I was surprised that you actually want my feedback. Stephen stopped asking a long time ago.”
“I would have thought it rather handy to have you around. A second set of eyes, someone to bounce ideas off.”
Christy-Lynn looked up from peeling the soggy label from her water bottle. “Stephen never thought much of what I do—or the writers I do it for. As far as he was concerned, if you weren’t with one of the Big Five, you should be doing something else. In his eyes, it wasn’t real editing because my clients weren’t real writers.”
Wade took a pull from his beer then stood looking at her with something like bewilderment. “Can you help me with something? Because I’ve been wondering about it for the last four years. How did a jackass like Stephen ever manage to snare someone like you?”
The intensity in his tone surprised her, but not as much as the words themselves. “You’ve been wondering that for four years?”
“I guess it’s more like five now, but yes. That night at the alumni dinner, when you got in my face, all I could think was he doesn’t deserve her.”
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