When Never Comes

by Barbara Davis

  “No. I did.”

  “You felt it too, then?”

  Yes, she’d felt it. And for a moment, she’d nearly let it consume her. She glanced at the sky, empty now but for a scatter of stars. The fireworks had ended, and the quiet felt unsettling, as if all of a sudden there was nowhere to hide. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t . . . thinking.”

  “Apparently, neither was I. I don’t want to be the guy who makes a move on a friend when she’s vulnerable.”

  His words brought her up short. “You think I’m vulnerable?”

  Even in the dark, she could sense his astonishment. “You don’t?”

  Vulnerable. It wasn’t a word she liked the sound of. It was a weak word. A needy word. And she didn’t want to need anyone. But now there was Wade. Strong, kind, and more than willing to be a shoulder in her time of need. How had she not seen it coming? She had gotten caught up in the moment, foolishly opening a door she wasn’t remotely ready to walk through. And had nearly ruined a friendship in the bargain.

  “I honestly don’t know what I am,” she answered finally. “A mess, I suspect. But you’re not that guy, Wade. This was my fault. You’ve been a friend. A good friend, and that’s where we need to leave it.”

  He said nothing as he reached for the paddle and turned them about. Christy-Lynn was quiet too, studying the angular set of his shoulders as he maneuvered the canoe back toward shore. She had hurt him. Or at the very least confused him. She should have been more careful—for both their sakes. Instead, she had chosen to ignore the danger signs that had apparently been smoldering for some time. It was Wade she had turned to for help, after all, Wade she’d wept her heart out to when she learned about Iris, Wade she felt drawn to whenever she found herself needing a shoulder. But that had to do with his connection to Stephen—didn’t it?

  Wade wasted no time climbing out of the canoe when they reached shore, offering a brief hand as she followed clumsily. He took the deck steps two at a time, not bothering to look back as he disappeared through the open sliding glass doors. Christy-Lynn was happy to lag behind, relieved to have time to rein in her emotions.

  The kitchen was empty when she finally stepped back into the cabin. Wade’s manuscript was lying on the counter beside their empty ice-cream bowls. She picked it up along with her purse, wishing she knew what else to say.

  She found Wade in the living room, busily reshelving a stack of CDs. He looked up when she entered the room, his expression dark but unreadable. “Why?”

  She stared at him, baffled. “Why what?”

  “Why do we have to leave it there?”

  She sighed, wishing she could make him understand. “Because we do. Because I do. I’m just getting my feet back under me, Wade. I’m not ready for complications. And that’s what you’d be. I know that sounds harsh, but I’ve basically had one adult relationship in my life, and it didn’t end well. I don’t need another failure on my record.”

  He stood with his legs braced wide apart, his arms stiff at his sides. “My feet aren’t exactly firmly planted either, Christy-Lynn, but there’s something here, something we both felt tonight. Maybe it’s just physical—and maybe it isn’t—but our paths keep crossing. Maybe that means something.”

  Christy-Lynn clutched the manuscript to her chest, as if to shield herself from the pull of his words. “You’re right. There is a connection. It’s there, and it’s real—but it’s Stephen. It’s all the damage he’s done, all the ways he cheated and lied and screwed us both over. That’s what we have in common. My dead husband. But that’s a therapy session not a romance. I can’t afford to get the two confused.”

  Wade folded his arms, his face suddenly closed. “So where does that leave us?”

  She would have touched him then, if she thought she could trust herself. Instead, she reached for a smile or what she hoped passed for one. “Where we’ve always been, I hope—friends.”

  “Does that ever work? Going back to being friends?”

  “It was a kiss, Wade. We don’t have to let it get weird.”

  “Right,” he said, though his nod was less than convincing. “No weirdness.”

  “Exactly. Look, I’m going to go.” She held up the manuscript. “I’ve got reading to do.”

  He followed her to the door, hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets. “For the record, when I asked you over tonight, I wasn’t planning some big seduction scene.”

  “I know you weren’t. And it might be better if we just pretend the whole thing never happened.”

  Wade held her gaze as he pulled back the door. “I’m not sure that’s going to be possible for me.”

  Christy-Lynn said nothing as she stepped onto the porch, the memory of Wade’s lips on hers still much too fresh. She wasn’t sure it was going to be possible for her either.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Sweetwater, Virginia

  July 12, 2017

  Christy-Lynn flipped her pillow over, giving it another sharp punch. She’d been lying awake for nearly an hour, though this time her insomnia had nothing to do with bad dreams. Her thoughts kept returning to her upcoming trip to Riddlesville, rehearsing ways to convince Rhetta to accept her help. If a check for $10,000 had spooked her, she was really going to slam on the brakes when she found out what kind of money they were talking about now.

  Resigned, she sat up and clicked on the bedside lamp. If she wasn’t going to sleep, she might as well work. She still hadn’t finished the book club flyer for the store, and her in-box was out of control.

  She was reaching for her laptop when she spotted the stack of pages Wade had given her more than a week ago. She had yet to touch them. Not because she’d been too busy, but because they were an awkward reminder of their impromptu kiss. Yes, she was the one who said it didn’t have to get weird, and she meant it, but for a while at least, it seemed wise to keep her distance. And that included his manuscript.

  Not that he’d been around much since that night. In fact, he seemed to be keeping enough distance for the both of them. But maybe that was for the best. Maybe he was right. Maybe going back to being friends really didn’t work. Maybe once you crossed that line you were either all in or all out. And if that was the case, she had no choice but to opt for all out.

  She couldn’t deny that the temptation was there but so was the potential for disaster. Like a parched forest and a stray bolt of lightning, the chance of conflagration was all too real. And if marriage to Stephen had taught her anything, it was that she wasn’t cut out for the love-and-marriage paradigm. Yes, she had belonged to Stephen, legally and perhaps even emotionally for a time. But belonging to someone and giving yourself to them were two very different things. One formed out of need, a tidy arrangement mutually beneficial to both parties, while the other involved laying yourself bare—something she’d never been very good at.

  She eyed the manuscript again with a lingering pang of guilt, then grabbed her laptop. She’d get around to it—eventually. But for now she was playing it safe. She went to her in-box first, pleasantly surprised to find a request from Kimberly Ward, a women’s fiction author, inquiring about a possible signing for her debut novel. She had included several links, one of which took her to the author’s website.

  A pretty redhead smiled back at her from the landing page, a thirtysomething with long copper hair and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her bio was brief but friendly—a mother of two boys and two tricolor shelties; a lifelong native of Beaufort, South Carolina; a southern lit junkie who’d cut her teeth on The Prince of Tides and To Kill a Mockingbird.

  Christy-Lynn liked her already. But it was the montage of photos on the About Me page that intrigued her most: ancient oaks dripping with silver-blue moss, historic downtown streets lined with palmettos, a sliver of sun sinking into gilded water. It was all so lovely, so charmingly old South. And yet it was nothing like the South Carolina she’d grown up in.

  Without warning, Charlene Parker’s face drifted into her head. Not the stitched-
up ruin she had glimpsed that last night at the hospital, but the face of the woman she’d been before the drugs and booze had taken hold. She’d heard from her only once in twenty years, a phone call out of the blue six or seven years back, and then nothing. Whether she was still alive was anyone’s guess. Women like Charlene Parker, who engaged in what psychologists referred to as high-risk behaviors, had a habit of dying young.

  On impulse, Christy-Lynn opened a new window and typed the words people finder into the search bar. When a list of sites popped up, she clicked the first one and typed in her mother’s name, birth date, and last known city and state. The screen blinked then popped up with a list of names and addresses. And there she was, third down on the list: Charlene Kendra Parker, 1710 Proctor Avenue, Apartment 13, Walterboro, South Carolina. Last reported at the given address seven months ago.

  Alive then, after all these years.

  There was no phone number listed, but that was hardly a surprise. When times got tough—which they always did—the phone had always been the first thing to go. Not that Christy-Lynn would have used a number if there had been one. After so many years, so much anger and resentment, what was there to say? But the answer came back almost before the question had formed. There was plenty to say. Plenty of blame to lay. Plenty of fingers to point. And maybe some of those fingers would be pointed back at her. For the kind of daughter she’d been. The kind who left a mother in trouble and never looked back.

  Five hours. Six at most. She could make the trip in a day. But why? There was no way of knowing if she was even still there. And what if she was? There was no way to patch it up now, no way to fill the empty places Charlene Parker’s brand of motherhood had carved out in her. And yet she found herself opening the drawer of the nightstand, reaching for the familiar dog-eared envelope.

  Dar’s words rose like a specter. Let the memories catch up to you. Except she didn’t want to let them catch up. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Instead of opening the envelope, she dropped it back into the drawer. She’d been doing just fine keeping her past under lock and key. Okay, maybe not fine, but she was managing. She saw no need to relive it all again. Once had been quite enough.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Clear Harbor, Maine

  March 12, 2011

  Christy-Lynn is walking through the door with an armload of groceries when she hears the phone ringing. After dumping the bags on the counter, she reaches for the phone. The caller ID displays an 843 area code—South Carolina. Her stomach clenches.

  “Hello?”

  There’s a brief silence and then, “Sorry, wrong number.”

  The voice is familiar, unnerving after more than ten years—the voice of a ghost. “Mama?”

  She can hear breathing over the line and in the background what sounds like The Price Is Right. Her mother had always loved The Price Is Right.

  “Mama—is that you?”

  There’s the sound of a lighter flicking, the pull of breath, the release of smoke. “You sound different,” Charlene Parker says finally. “All Yankee-fied.”

  Christy-Lynn’s legs feel bloodless as she sags against the chilly granite countertop. “How did you get this number?”

  Charlene ignores the question. “I was glad to hear about your marriage and to a real up-and-comer too. Looks like my baby girl’s landed herself in high cotton. But then I always knew you would. You were always so smart, so . . . good.”

  Christy-Lynn doesn’t ask how she knows about Stephen. The publicity photos had made the usual rounds. She remains quiet for a time, letting her mother’s words hang between them on the line. Was it sadness she heard? Bitterness? Accusation?

  “The number, Mama. How did you get it?”

  “Some woman named Sandra at your old job. I told her there was a family emergency, and I needed to get in touch with you as soon as possible.”

  Christy-Lynn smothers a groan. “Why did you need to get in touch with me?”

  “Oh, a bit of trouble. You know . . .”

  Yes. She knew. “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’m a little bit short, sweetie. I still owe last month’s rent, Dave says the car needs some kind of pump, and I . . . I lost my job at the Quick Stop.”

  Christy-Lynn is about to ask who Dave is and why she lost her job, but decides she doesn’t want to know. “How short?”

  “They’re saying four hundred for the pump thingy, but there’s the rent too.” There’s a pause, the rasp of smoke being exhaled. “I know it’s a lot, sweetie, but a grand would really get me back on my feet. And then I promise, I won’t bother you again.”

  A thousand dollars.

  Christy-Lynn closes her eyes, forcing herself to take slow, even breaths. It’s a small price to get her off the phone—and back out of her life. “Where should I send it?”

  Charlene rattles off an address somewhere in Walterboro. Christy-Lynn jots it down on the notepad she keeps on the fridge.

  “Thank you.” Her voice seems to wobble, and there’s a long pause. “Are you . . . are you happy, baby girl?”

  “Yes,” Christy-Lynn tells her. Her voice is clipped, almost defiant. “Yes, I am.”

  It occurs to her as she doodles a sad face on the notepad that she should ask her mother the same. But the truth is she isn’t sure she can bear the details.

  “I’ll mail the check today,” she says instead. “It should be there in a few days.”

  “Thank you, baby.” It’s little more than a whisper, thready and desperate. “Thank you so much.” And then, abruptly, the line is dead.

  Christy-Lynn stares at the phone, and for a moment, the old guilt rears its head. Would things have gone differently for Charlene Parker if her daughter hadn’t deserted her? It’s hard to imagine. If those terrible years had taught her anything, it was that time didn’t change women like her mother. It merely hastened their decline. Still, the question lingered. Could she have made a difference?

  She drops the phone into its cradle and goes to her purse to find her checkbook. Her hand shakes as she makes it out—$3,000. It’s more than her mother asked for, but guilt has a way of making people generous.

  She drops the checkbook back in her purse. It’s her personal checkbook, of course. There’s no reason for Stephen to know about the call. As far as he knows, her mother is dead—and until a few moments ago she had assumed the same.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sweetwater, Virginia

  July 19, 2017

  Christy-Lynn propped her feet up on an unopened carton of books, eyeing the stack of papers awaiting her attention. There were invoices to pay, next week’s schedule to finish, and the back-to-school sale to plan, but at the moment, she was too distracted to tackle any of it.

  She had green-lighted the trust paperwork with Peter Hagan six days ago. At the time, he had promised they would be ready in a week, two at the most. Now he was saying it was looking more like three—something about needing more time to make sure the necessary safeguards against abuse were in place. She appreciated his diligence on her behalf, but in the meantime, her life seemed to have slipped into a kind of limbo, her thoughts consumed with the logistics of the thing. She never imagined giving money away could be so complicated.

  And there was still Rhetta to convince. Despite their complicated and inexplicable ties, they were little more than strangers. And here she was, the well-heeled widow preparing to swoop in like some kind of lady bountiful. Would Rhetta think the offer presumptuous? See it as meddling in something that was none of her business? Both were not only possible but likely.

  She had planned to broach the subject with the paperwork in front of her, hoping that laying it all out in black and white would help put Rhetta at ease. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to wait three weeks. She’d seen firsthand how stubborn the woman could be when it came to accepting help. Perhaps it would be wise to reach out now and get her used to the idea.

  Christy-Lynn reached for her cell, pulled up Rhetta’s new number, and hit “Send.” Rhe
tta’s voice came wheezing over the line after three rings.

  “Hello?”

  She sounded tired and almost startled, as if she was surprised the phone had rung at all, which Christy-Lynn guessed it rarely did. “Rhetta, it’s Christy-Lynn. Are you all right? You don’t sound well.”

  “Just . . . winded is all. Is anything wrong?”

  “No. Nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering if you were going to be home this weekend. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  The television was on in the background, a talk show with lots of hooting and applause. Rhetta raised her voice over the din. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I just have something . . . I have an idea I’d like to talk to you about, a way I think we can both help Iris, but I’d like to do it in person if possible. I could come on Saturday.”

  “Well, I’ve got nowhere to go, so that would be fine, but I hate for you to drive all that way.”

  “I don’t mind really. It’s a little complicated, and I think it would be better if we talked about it face-to-face. Would that be all right?”

  “Well, yes. I guess so.” She sounded confused, perhaps even leery.

  “It’s a good thing, Rhetta. I promise. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

  Christy-Lynn was tossing her phone back into her purse, pleased to have at least gotten the ball rolling, when she realized she had made plans to go out of town without a thought to store coverage. She was going to have to ask Tamara for a favor.

  Tamara was behind the café counter brewing an espresso when Christy-Lynn stepped out of the back room. She looked up, smiling sunnily across the pickup counter. “What’s up, boss?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “One of my spectacular triple shot lattes?”

  “No. I don’t need coffee. I’m in a jam. I have to go out of town Saturday, and I was hoping you could close with Aileen. I hate to spring it on you last minute, but it’s important.”

  Tamara disappeared briefly to deliver her espresso then quickly reappeared. “No worries. Do what you have to do. Wait. Don’t go. You skipped lunch. At least let me make you a latte.”