“Mama’s with the angels,” she lisped softly. “She’s not coming back.”
“No,” Christy-Lynn managed thickly. “She isn’t.”
Iris said nothing for a time, looking up thoughtfully with one eye squinted. And then, before Christy-Lynn realized what was happening, Iris’s hand had stolen into hers, fingers small and slight weaving with her own.
“Nonny says you’re my angel. She says Mama sent you.”
Christy-Lynn stared down at Stephen’s daughter, so beautiful and sad, and could think of nothing to say. It was the longest string of words she’d ever heard her speak, and she felt each one like a knife. She wasn’t an angel. Not Iris’s or anyone else’s. But how did she say that to a child? To this child, who’d just been told otherwise?
She looked away quickly, clearing her throat. “I should take you home now. And then I have to go home myself.”
Iris’s chin began to quiver. “Will you come back?”
“Yes, in a few weeks.”
“Promise?”
Christy-Lynn swallowed past the jagged place in her throat as she stared at their entwined fingers and remembered Rhetta’s words. She never knows who’s coming back and who’s not.
“Yes, honey. I promise.”
FORTY
Tolstoy made a beeline for Christy-Lynn the moment she stepped through the door, squalling balefully in what she suspected was a scolding for leaving him for two days. She abandoned her bags and bent to pick him up, snuggling him against her cheek. It was nice having someone to come home to, even if that someone did have four legs and a tail.
He protested when she put him down and nearly tripped her twice as she made her way to the kitchen. As she rounded the corner, she felt something soft and squishy beneath her shoe. A tentative inspection revealed a gray felt mouse with a feather for a tail—obviously a present from Wade. There was another under the kitchen table and a third lodged under the fridge door. She gathered them up and deposited them at Tolstoy’s feet.
“Looks like someone has an admirer.”
She watched him a moment, batting the toys about, then turned to grab a bottled water from the fridge. She had to squint to read the handwritten note tacked up beside Iris’s fish.
Check the microwave. I thought I’d give you a second chance since you missed out last time. Welcome home.
Curious, she opened the microwave to discover a plastic leftover container. She found herself smiling as she peeled back the lid, delighted by the mingled aromas of tomato sauce and Italian herbs. Spaghetti. The man was full of surprises.
In the living room, she retrieved her cell from her purse and pulled up Wade’s number.
“You’re home,” he said in lieu of hello, as if he were simply picking up the thread of their last conversation. She found it strangely comforting.
“Yes, I’m home. Safe and sound, as promised.”
“How was it?”
Christy-Lynn pulled in a breath then let it out slowly. “Emotional.”
“But you got Rhetta to agree?”
“After two hours of arm twisting, yes. I still don’t think she’s grasped how much this is going to change their lives.”
“No second thoughts?”
“About the trust? No. About everything else . . .” She let the rest dangle, not sure she wanted to go there with Wade. He had warned her, after all.
“What’s everything else?”
“Nothing, really. It’s just that I’m starting to see that I’m going to need to be more involved than I thought. At least in the beginning. There’s so much they both need, so many details to take care of, and I’m not sure Rhetta’s up to handling it by herself. She doesn’t even have transportation. She asked me to take her and Iris to the cemetery to see Honey’s grave.”
“And did you?”
Christy-Lynn held her breath a moment. She hadn’t meant to tell him about the cemetery, but it was out now. “What else could I do?”
Wade was quiet for a moment, as if weighing his next words very carefully. Christy-Lynn braced for an I told you so. Instead, he surprised her by changing the subject. “You sound tired.”
“It’s been a long two days. I’m going to eat your spaghetti, and then I’m going to take a long hot bath and climb into bed. And thank you by the way. That was . . . thoughtful.”
“Get some rest. I’ll drop the key by tomorrow.”
After dinner, which turned out to be delicious, she filled the tub and indulged in a long hot soak, then crawled between the sheets with the latest Barbara Claypole White novel. All she wanted at the moment was to lose herself in someone else’s story and not think about the tangle of emotions she’d brought back with her from West Virginia.
She was reaching for the crisp new novel when she saw Wade’s manuscript, still untouched and gathering dust on the nightstand. She picked it up, propping the stack of unbound pages against her knees, and began to read. Not because she felt guilty, but because she was suddenly curious about the man who bought mouse toys for her cat and left homemade spaghetti in her microwave.
It was 2:00 a.m. when she finally forced herself to set the manuscript aside, her eyes too tired to focus on one more sentence. She was only halfway through the stack but had already scribbled several pages of notes. The End of Known Things had the potential to be a beautiful story of growth and redemption. The premise was largely sound, and the prose was gorgeous, woven in a way that managed to feel both lush and spare. It was his main character—Vance—that was the problem. Midway through the second act, he had simply fallen flat, as if Wade had suddenly forgotten who he was writing about. Or had never known to begin with.
It wasn’t a fatal flaw or even serious as long as he was willing to work on it, but as she flicked off the light and slid under the covers, she couldn’t help wondering what had caused the sudden rift in Wade’s writing. Perhaps he’d simply lost touch with the story he’d started twenty years ago. A lot could happen to a person in twenty years, and from what he’d told her, a lot had—a career ended, a love lost. Was it possible that in closing the door on that part of his life he had also closed the door on his creativity? It wasn’t hard to imagine. There was certainly plenty in her own past that she was reluctant to look at.
Because looking made it real.
Christy-Lynn was returning from lunch with Missy and Dar when she saw Wade’s Jeep parked outside the store. She found him in the café, seated at his usual table, banging away at his laptop.
“Looks like you’re on a roll.”
Wade pecked out a few more words, then looked up and smiled. “Hey, you. I came to drop off your key.”
Something about that smile, all white teeth and scruffy jaw, always took her by surprise. He was the only man she’d ever met who could leave the house without shaving or combing his hair and still look like he was ready for a GQ photo shoot.
“Sorry. I ran out to meet Missy for lunch.”
Wade fished the key from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “No worries. I got some work done while I was waiting.”
Christy-Lynn could feel Tamara peering furtively around the espresso machine, no doubt drawing her own conclusions about the key exchange she had just witnessed. She’d be sure to set her straight the moment Wade was gone.
“Tolstoy asked me to thank you for the mice. He’s crazy about them. In fact, he batted them around the house half the night.”
“It’s the catnip. It’s like kitty pot. Makes them frisky and then really mellow.”
“That explains a lot.”
“You still look pretty tired. Did you manage to get some rest?”
“A little. I was up until two, reading your manuscript.”
Wade winced visibly. “And?”
“I made lots of notes. We could go over them if you want. Or we can wait until I get through the rest of the pages.”
Wade scrubbed at the scruff on his chin with a pained expression. “No time like the present, I guess. Are you free for dinner?”
“Hmmm, dinner with my cat’s dealer. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Come on. Take a walk on the wild side.”
There was that smile again. He was making it difficult to say no, and she was pretty sure he knew it. “Let me guess—you have spaghetti leftovers you need to unload.”
“Actually, I was thinking the Cork and Cleaver around seven?”
Christy-Lynn felt a skitter of nerves. Dinner. Out. Probably not a good idea. But it was business, wasn’t it? A business dinner. With a client. In a public place. How dangerous could it be? “Okay, then. I’ll run home for my notes when we close and meet you there.”
Christy-Lynn waved as she stepped into the lobby of the Cork and Cleaver. Wade was seated at the end of a long oak bench, looking handsome and crisp in dark slacks and a light-blue oxford. He stood when he saw her, wrapping up his chat with Queenie Peterson, who, in spite of owning the restaurant, appeared to also be playing hostess.
Queenie’s face brightened when she spotted Christy-Lynn. “Well now, Wade didn’t say it was you he was meeting. How lovely.”
“Just a little business,” Christy-Lynn assured, not liking the matchmaker gleam in Queenie’s eye. “Wade asked me to give him some feedback on his novel.”
Queenie leaned close, voice lowered. “Are you sure? He’s awfully dreamy.”
“He’s a client, Queenie. We’re here to talk about his book, and that’s it.”
“Fine.” Queenie sighed, reaching for a pair of menus from the hostess stand. “But for the record, I think you’re crazy.”
Wade trailed behind as Queenie led them to a dimly lit corner table. He held out Christy-Lynn’s chair before settling across from her. “I’m a client?” he asked with raised brows.
“I needed to set the record straight. She tends to go off the rails when there’s a good-looking guy around.”
“You think I’m good-looking?”
He had opened his menu, so that only his eyes were visible, but she could tell by the tiny creases at the corners that he was smiling. She fought a smile of her own as she spread her napkin in her lap. “Don’t beg for compliments. It isn’t attractive. Now let’s decide what we’re eating so we can get to work.”
Wade grunted. “All work and no play—”
“Makes Wade a better writer,” Christy-Lynn finished primly. “Let’s do the crab dip. It’s delicious.”
By the time dessert arrived, she had checked off most of the large ticket items on her notepad. Across from her, Wade sat pushing a bite of cheesecake around his plate, his face stony. She wished she could read him better, but he had a way of closing down that made it impossible to guess his mood.
“Look, I know no one likes negative feedback, but it’s part of the gig. And I’m not saying it isn’t good. Quite the opposite, in fact. You have a wonderful voice, fresh and clean, stripped down but still evocative. And the story mechanics are strong in the beginning. The problem is your main character. I haven’t read all the pages you gave me yet, but as a reader, I’d have probably put the book down about halfway through. I just . . . stopped caring.”
“Wow.” Wade put down his fork and looked at her. “I really am a client.”
Christy-Lynn felt a pang of sympathy. She wasn’t used to dealing with writers face-to-face. Her clients were spread from Nova Scotia to Scotland, which meant she gave most of her feedback by e-mail or phone. It was different when you had to look someone in the eye and stomp all over their heart’s work.
“Come on,” she said, trying to keep it light. “You didn’t really ask me to read it so I’d fawn all over you. You wanted to know what wasn’t working, and I’ve told you—or at least given you my opinion. And it’s not like any of it’s fatal. You just need to know your characters better. Do a little psychoanalyzing.”
Wade glowered over his wineglass. “On my characters or myself?”
“Sometimes it’s the same thing.”
“You think I’m Vance?”
“I have no idea who Vance is based on or if he’s based on anyone. In fact, all I know about him is he’s an angry guy with a past, and anyone can write that guy. Tell me where he’s vulnerable. Show me what makes him bleed. Because if he doesn’t bleed, no one’s going to care if he gets the girl.”
Wade was quiet as he signed for the check, leaving Christy-Lynn to wonder what he was thinking. Was he nursing a bruised ego? Digesting what she’d said? Already pondering how he might apply her suggestions? Judging by his grim expression as they made their way to the lobby it could be all of the above—or none.
After the close atmosphere of the restaurant, it felt good to step out into the cool night air. They were quiet as they crossed the parking lot, feet crunching on the pea gravel, shoulders brushing occasionally.
“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” Christy-Lynn said when they reached the Rover. “I can’t tell what you’re thinking, but I hope you’re not miffed because of anything I said in there.”
“No,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I’m not miffed. I’m just trying to figure out if it’s worth the trouble. Maybe Simone was right. Maybe it’s all just a big pipe dream.”
“It isn’t a pipe dream, Wade. The book has real potential. In fact, with a little tweaking, you might really have something.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being a friend now or an editor.”
She smiled at that. “One doesn’t necessarily preclude the other. And I meant every word. Just show your readers that there’s more to Vance than anger. Give them some layers to peel back. Show the chinks in his armor. He can be mad as hell at the start of the book, but at some point, we need to see that there’s a way out of all that darkness.”
“And if there isn’t?”
Christy-Lynn was fumbling in her purse for her car keys. The sudden gravity in his tone made her look up. “There’s always a way out.”
“You say that like you believe it.”
She looked up through her bangs to meet his gaze. “I have to. Otherwise you don’t have a book—or a life.”
“Was that for you or for me?”
She shrugged. “Both, I guess. The other day Missy said something that got me thinking. She said the word never represents all the doors we keep closed, that when we say never we close ourselves off from the hope that things can ever be different.”
Wade tilted his head to one side, studying her in a way that made her want to look away but made looking away impossible. She felt rooted to the spot, paralyzed by something she could feel but not name. Finally, he reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from her eyes, tucking it behind her ear.
“Are there things you’d like to be different, Christy-Lynn Parker?”
His touch was warm and unsettlingly familiar, and for an instant, Christy-Lynn felt one of Missy’s closed doors nudge open. But it was a door almost certain to lead to heartache—for both of them. She took a step back and would have taken another if she wasn’t already pressed against the car door. “Please . . . don’t do this. Don’t try to get in my head and figure me out. I promise you, it isn’t worth it.”
“It was just a question.” He was standing so close his voice seemed to vibrate in her chest. “Do you know the answer?”
She sighed, dropping her head. “Sometimes it just is what it is, Wade. There are things we can change and things we can’t. The key is knowing the difference.”
“Wait. Weren’t you the one just lecturing me about the word never? Maybe you should take your own advice.”
“Actually, it was Missy’s advice. I was just thinking out loud.” Christy-Lynn glanced about helplessly, wishing there was some way to escape without making a fool of herself. The longer they lingered, face-to-face in the nearly deserted lot, the more vivid the memory of their brief kiss became, stirring impulses she didn’t dare trust. She cleared her throat, fidgeting with her keys. “Look, I need to get home. It’s getting late, and I’ve got a ton of e-mails to answer.”
Wade
took a quick step back. “I did it again, didn’t I?”
“Did what?”
“Pushed you. Scared you. I didn’t mean to.”
She shook her head, smiling sadly as she unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. There was no way to explain what she was feeling. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, longing, inexplicably, to hurl herself off, knowing she’d never survive the fall. She wasn’t cut out to be the other half of anything, no matter how tempted she was—and she was tempted.
“You didn’t scare me,” she said, reaching for the door handle. “I scared me.”
“Wait!” Wade grabbed the door before she could pull it closed. “I don’t know what that means.”
“You don’t have to know,” she said, letting the smile slip. “As long as I do.”
FORTY-ONE
Sweetwater, Virginia
August 9, 2017
Christy-Lynn turned the freshly delivered FedEx envelope over in her hands. Peter had called yesterday to let her know he was finally overnighting the trust papers, asking her again if she was sure she wanted to proceed. Nothing was final until the papers were signed. But after weeks of weighing the pros and cons, she saw no reason to change her mind.
It wasn’t like there’d be a lot of personal contact. Peter had strongly urged her to name him as point person, expressing concerns that in the event of an “irregularity” she might prove less than objective. She agreed, not because she didn’t trust her objectivity, but because keeping a little distance might be a good thing. Once she’d helped Rhetta settle the housing and school questions, her duties would amount to little more than reviewing the monthly statements. But her conscience would be clear.
She slid the pages free, staring at the words on the top sheet: Revocable Living Trust. She leafed through the rest, noting the tiny green and yellow flags strategically placed near the lines to be signed by each party, then realized she’d better call Rhetta and let her know her copies would be arriving in the next day or so.
It took three rings before Rhetta finally picked up. As usual, she sounded breathless and worn to the nub. “It’s Christy-Lynn, Rhetta. How are you?”
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