What's Left Unsaid

by Emily Bleeker

  Hannah was working off a list of last names from that era that might match Evelyn’s age and description. On another page, she listed the surnames that belonged to members of Evelyn’s community like the leering plumber and the postman.

  Oh! Postman! Hannah thought and flipped to another empty page. Perhaps there was a way of finding out Evelyn’s name if she could locate her address. The postman seemed to be a great lead. She labeled the page, Postman.

  She hadn’t felt very much besides sadness for a long time, so to feel—pretty much anything else—was invigorating. Most days she wanted to get back in the basement to search the archives without Terry’s prying eyes or Monty’s commentary. And she’d found that when she escaped to the other side of the basement door and rushed carefully down the stairs, which no longer seemed as steep, that the creaks sounded less like warnings and more like invitations. She was even starting to enjoy the sound of a scanner bouncing off the cement walls. The dank, vaguely mildewy smell still scratched at Hannah’s throat, but the mass of papers and confusion in the filing room no longer seemed like a daunting, massive waste of time.

  Usually, Monty stayed later than all the regular newspaper employees, but recently Hannah was the one overstaying her welcome. Most nights for the past week and a half, he’d ended up standing at the top of the staircase, bellowing, “Miss Williamson!” from a safe and effortless distance.

  And, like today, she left every single item in place so she could pick up in the same spot the next morning and then bounded up the stairs, which had somehow become less rickety. It’d become a game to see how fast she could collect all her belongings, avoiding Monty, who had a never-ending list of questions about her family, Chicago, and her job at the Tribune.

  Thankfully, the one topic of conversation he hadn’t forced his way into was what kept her so enthralled in that basement. Monty was such a control freak that Hannah was sure he’d hate the idea of anyone investigating a story without his express permission. But she reasoned that at least she was doing a bang-up job at organizing and archiving the files, as she’d been assigned. And the purpose of scanning the scraps of paper, letters to the editor, reference materials, old photos, and more was to one day put them online for public access, as so many other newspapers had done over the years. So she was setting aside a few items that needed to be filed together—nothing weird about that. Plus, without the hope of discovering more of Evelyn’s story, Hannah would’ve bored of the activity within a day. Well, before that even.

  Tonight she was at work even later than usual. Sweet little Nurse Nancy had taught Hannah how to help Mamaw in and out of bed and to perform the nightly routine of visits to the bathroom and distributing medicine. But Hannah kept losing track of time. If she biked home at full speed, she’d be able to spend a little time with Mamaw before she retired for the night.

  Now that the days were getting colder, she’d started bringing her bike into the entry of the offices. It would be called a mudroom in Illinois, but Monty called it a vestibule. He sniffed when she’d deposited the ancient blue-and-white ten-speed there a few days ago.

  Hannah wrestled the bike away from the wall, where it had gotten tangled with the dark walnut coatrack, like it always did. It was easy to drop it in the vestibule in the morning, but leaving was more complicated. The space was already tight with the rack, and there was also a pastor’s bench and a small bookcase with an ancient arrangement of dusty silk flowers on top. Escaping gracefully was not an option.

  Hannah kicked open the screen door with her foot and rolled the bike out backward onto the cement steps, trying to juggle the door, the metal frame, and her half-stuffed work bag. With one last shove, she forced the bike out into the fresh fall air. The door screeched and slammed shut, making Hannah jump forward and crash her shin into one of the metal pedals.

  “Oh!” she gasped, leaning against the doorjamb to pull up the bottom of her pant leg. There was no blood, but she rubbed the deep red mark roughly to help make the pain dissipate.

  “Are you Hannah?” a deep male voice asked from the bottom of the stairs.

  Hannah glanced up from her leg. A tall man, young looking but old enough to have the beginnings of a neatly trimmed beard, stood on the cement path that led up to the newspaper offices. He wore worn blue jeans and a clean white T-shirt with a blue flannel unbuttoned over it that complemented his dark complexion. If it wasn’t for the throbbing pain in her shin, she might have wondered how a stranger knew her name. Instead, she looked back down at her injury and mumbled a reply, distracted.

  “Uh-huh, but I’m on my way out. Mr. Martin is inside if you need anything.” She rolled down the fabric of her boot-cut jeans to cover the evidence of her clumsiness and started to force the bike down the stairs when the man rushed up the steps and grabbed the front wheel.

  “Hey!” She jumped, surprised when the bike slipped out of her grip as he carried it down to street level effortlessly, like some kind of magic trick.

  “I don’t need Mr. Martin,” he said, with the casual respect a good southern boy gives his elders. “I’m here to retrieve you.”

  Hannah pulled the strap of her bag up onto her shoulder, awkwardly aware that her dingy, beige bra strap was clearly visible at the edge of the deep V of her T-shirt, frumpy and unkempt. This man was objectively attractive, with dark brown eyes that looked like they were laughing at her and a firm chest that showed through the thin material of his shirt.

  “Here, I got that,” she said, rushing down the steps and reaching for her bike.

  But the man didn’t move or let go. Instead, he examined Hannah and squinted his dark eyes as he spoke. “You’re Hannah? Not what I expected, but okay.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Hannah blurted, yanking the handlebars out of his grip.

  “Nothing, I just thought . . .” He let his words drift off into silence, likely trying to be polite, like every other damn person in this state. Ironically, the constant search for decorum left Hannah offended more often than she’d ever been in the more unfiltered North. Down here, instead of hearing what someone was thinking about her directly, she filled in the blanks with her most anxious thoughts and insecurities.

  “Well, I need to get home,” she said, gesturing to the darkening sky and taking a step away.

  But the man didn’t move out of the way. Living in Chicago had trained Hannah to always be on edge, and if she was still in the city, she’d have let go of the bicycle and called for help. But in small-town Senatobia, she planted her feet firmly on the sidewalk and glared up into the man’s smooth and undisturbed face.

  “That’s why I’m here. I do some work for your grandma . . . Mrs. Williamson. She asked me to come by—”

  Hannah stopped in her tracks. “Wait, Mamaw?” She felt like she couldn’t breathe. “Is she okay?” At ninety-one, anything could be wrong. She didn’t pause for a response, flipping open her messenger bag and riffling through to find where she’d tossed her phone. Mamaw didn’t have a cell phone, but she did have a landline by the side of her bed. Maybe she’d called and Hannah had missed it.

  She found the device and turned on the home screen. It was filled with notifications from a local number, but it wasn’t Mamaw’s. Someone had been trying to get in touch with Hannah, and it was urgent.

  “Shit,” she cursed under her breath. Touching one of the messages, she held the phone up to her ear.

  “I can just tell you . . . ,” the mystery man said, waving at Hannah like he wanted to take the phone out of her hand. But Hannah turned away and pressed it closer to her ear.

  Mamaw’s shaky voice came through the receiver. “Hannah, sweetie—I’m at Aria’s Salon. My appointment ended a little early. Now, the girls and I are gossiping, but if you could head on down here as soon as you get home, that would be so nice of you. Love you.”

  Damn it—her hair appointment. Nancy had to go home early for a cake tasting with her fiancé, so Hannah had offered to leave at four, get Mamaw’s Buick
, and then pick her up at the salon by four thirty. It was now past six. She tapped on the next message, this one from four thirty on the dot.

  “Hannah, darlin’, maybe you’re running behind today, or maybe you forgot about my appointment. The girls close up in half an hour, so I hope this gets to you soon. Carla is not picking up at home, and Nancy is already in Looxahoma, so if you could please give me a call here at Aria’s Salon. The number is . . .” Mamaw read off a list of numbers and said her goodbye, hanging up.

  There were three more messages, but Hannah couldn’t bring herself to listen to them. She slipped the phone into her back pocket. It was an hour past closing time for the salon, but luckily it was only three miles across town, just a few blocks south of Mamaw’s house. If she went fast enough and didn’t get stuck at any intersections, she’d be there in fifteen minutes. After checking in on Mamaw, she could go home, get the car, head back, and pick her up.

  Her cheeks burned, and the pain in her leg barely registered anymore. She tossed one of her legs over the bike and was finding her balance when the stranger cleared his throat.

  “Thank you for your help, but I should go,” she said, moving past the stranger, uncomfortable with the on-edge way he made her feel. As soon as she was balanced, Hannah started off down the sidewalk.

  “Hey, would you just stop for a second?” He followed her, his long strides matching her hurried pace easily.

  “Listen, I’m already late, mister . . .” She let the statement trail off, realizing she’d never even caught his name.

  “Guy,” he said, filling in her blank. “Just Guy. No mister.” Even through his somewhat softened southern tone, he sounded annoyed.

  “Okay, Guy,” she said, putting one foot down momentarily so he could catch up. “I screwed up big-time and need to pick up my grandma.”

  “Your grandma is already at home,” he said, not even a little out of breath. A fine line of perspiration at his hairline was the only evidence of his over-the-top effort. “Eileen dropped her off half an hour ago.”

  “Oh, thank goodness,” she said, some of the tension in her joints releasing. Eileen was the owner of Aria’s Salon.

  “Well, good to see you’ve decided not to run away,” he said, his grin charming. “I’m George Franklin’s son. I’m helping build the addition out back of your grandmother’s house.”

  “Oh, you’re the handyman,” she said, the pieces clicking into place. As soon as Mamaw got the news that Hannah would be moving in, she’d hired a crew to convert the screened-in back porch into a bedroom suite so Hannah wouldn’t have to sleep long-term in Papaw’s office. Hannah had rejected the idea, offering to take one of the upstairs bedrooms once she wasn’t needed on the main floor anymore, but the crew had already started by the time Hannah arrived, and there was no stopping it now. The renovations were moving along, but with winter weather coming soon, even in mild Mississippi, they were rushing to get the insulation and walls up so that the work could move inside before it got too cold. But that meant that most of the time, the work was being done on the outside of the house. She hadn’t met any of the men working with George, but Mamaw had mentioned that his son had done a few odd jobs around her place.

  “I don’t know about handy, but I am a carpenter. I help out my daddy when he needs it.”

  “Oh, sorry. I guess handyman is a bit of an outdated term,” Hannah corrected herself, sure she was blushing.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He chuckled. “We prefer handypersons if you don’t mind.”

  “Ah, noted.” An awkward silence passed between them.

  Guy did them both a favor and filled in the gap. “And you are the granddaughter I’ve heard so much about.”

  “Oh yes. Though my grandma likes to exaggerate,” she said, grateful the sun was low enough in the sky that her embarrassed blushing could be explained away by the time of day.

  “Nice to meet you, officially,” he said. His smile was bright, teeth perfectly straight from fantastic orthodontics in his youth or really great genes.

  Hannah took Guy’s offered hand, likely a few moments later than would’ve been considered normal, but at least she didn’t space out on it completely.

  “You too, Guy. And thanks for passing on Mamaw’s message. I should probably give her a call and head home.” She let go after two short pumps, his hand large and mildly calloused in a way that matched his profession.

  Guy didn’t give her space to leave, putting his hand on her bike once again. “That is why I’m here. Your grandma wants me to take you home. I brought my daddy’s truck for your bike. I know you thought I was tryin’ to steal it.” He smirked, joking but also serious enough to make Hannah’s cheeks warm for the tenth time in their conversation.

  “I never said that,” she tried to counter, but decided midsentence it was better to be straightforward. She’d never been very good at BSing, and down here, it was a unique art of social grace. She was pretty sure you had to be born and raised into it to become proficient at it. “I’ve lived in Chicago for the past ten years, so when a stranger tries to take your bike on the street, you kick him in the—”

  He interrupted just before she could say balls, for which she was immediately grateful.

  “I’ll count myself lucky, then. But for now, I should get you home,” he said, sounding a little too much like a southern gentleman making sure a vulnerable lady wasn’t out past dark to “protect her reputation.”

  She should let him take the bike and put it in the back of the truck. She should climb into the passenger seat and spend the next two minutes in polite conversation with a man who was, more than likely, a friendly, hardworking guy. Yet she found herself straightening her shoulders and pulling the bike closer to her body. She hated this part of herself that had become inflated since her life had started falling apart—defensive, anxious, especially when she felt insecure. She wanted to be strong and independent, and this man, through no fault of his own, was making her feel weak.

  “I appreciate the offer, but if Mamaw is home safe, I think I’d rather bike,” she said, tugging the handlebars out of Guy’s loosened grip. He held up his hands like he was the one being robbed. She had tried to blow him off, had wasted his time, and had unintentionally insulted him. There was no way he wanted to do her a favor. She’d save both of them the awkwardness.

  “Yes, ma’am, if you’re sure . . . ,” he said, backing away toward a boxy red-and-white Ford truck.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks again, Guy,” she said in her formal “I’m a professional” voice.

  Guy put one hand in his pocket and rubbed at the stubble on his face with the other. “Have a nice ride, Miss Williamson.” He retrieved his keys from his pocket and flipped them around his index finger, the hint of a smirk tugging up the corner of his mouth.

  “You too,” she called back, mounting her bike with one smooth kick of her leg, hoping that she looked like a skilled cyclist. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder to see if he was watching. As she picked up speed, she lifted from her seat just a little. She was turning the first corner on her path home when a raindrop hit her wrist.

  “What the . . . ?” She glanced up at the sky. She’d thought the rapid descent into darkness had been from the sun setting, but a rumble of thunder in the distance reminded Hannah that she’d forgotten to check the weather today. The raindrops continued to hit her skin in increasingly rapid succession, rolling down her arms and back and soaking into her hair.

  Her foot slipped off the pedal and she wobbled, almost swerving into the street. A car sped by, the tires sending up a light mist from the rainwater already collecting on the ground. With one foot on the grass next to the road and the other on the sidewalk she’d veered off, Hannah squinted through the increasingly torrential downpour at the brake lights of the truck that had almost hit her, and her heart sank as she noticed it was Guy Franklin taking a right turn on Gilmore Street, heading toward Mamaw’s house.

  “Damn it,” she muttered, dabbing her face
with the inside of her T-shirt to clear the rainwater from her eyes, finally understanding the strange way he’d been looking at her when Hannah said she wanted to ride home on her own. The rain was cold, and her sweatshirt wasn’t warm enough to keep out the chilly fall wind once it was saturated. But despite her hands feeling frozen around the handlebars and her face stinging with the impact of each angry raindrop, Hannah was warm all over. Not just from the speed at which she pedaled her bike but also from that cocky grin she wished she could wipe off Guy Franklin’s face.

  CHAPTER 6

  Hannah hung her bike on the hook at the back of Mamaw’s garage. Rainwater dripped off her sleeves into her face and onto the ground, creating a halo of droplets on the floor around her. In the fifteen or so minutes it took to ride from the office to Mamaw’s house, every square inch of her body had been saturated. Shoes sloshing with each step, she hoped that the contents of her work bag were at least somewhat dry inside the supposedly “waterproof” lining.

  Fighting off a deep shudder, Hannah stomped up the wooden steps that led to the house. Even the doorknob felt warm to her touch, and when she swung open the door, the smell of cornbread and chili welcomed her like someone had wrapped her in a heated blanket. Dropping her bag with a clunk, she stood still in the linoleum-floored laundry room for a second, letting the comforting air surround her. Carla rushed in wearing her apron and smelling of cooked onions.

  “Oh my, you are a mess,” she gasped, covering her mouth, without so much as a greeting. “You poor thing. Now, take off those wet things, and I’ll get you a towel.”

  Hannah stripped off her jacket and drenched T-shirt, and wormed out of her heavy-soled boots. Carla could be straightforward and opinionated, but she always had a softness, even in her sharpest comments, that kept Hannah in the same state of respect and awe she’d learned as a small child when visiting at holidays. Papaw would smoke his pipe in the armchair in the front room, and when she and Brody got too loud, he’d escape to his office. Uncle Sammy was pure fun—piggyback rides and games in the local swimming pool—and her daddy would get a southern drawl from out of nowhere, pointing to every corner of the town with a new story. And Mamaw, even more polished and pristine. The only thing Hannah hated was that they had to change into fancy clothes for dinnertime and she’d have to be extra careful to not get a stain on her dress.