“Hey there, speed demon! Didn’t know you’d headed home,” Guy said, rubbing his clean hands on a white rag that didn’t show even a smudge of grease. He’d clearly changed after work but still looked as put together as ever with his dark-blue jeans and a maroon T-shirt with matching unbuttoned flannel. His sleeves were rolled up, probably for necessity, but also in such a precise way that it looked like it must have been on purpose.
“Damn it,” she cursed. She’d forgotten to text Guy and let him know when she was on her way home so that Rosie could set the table. Guy put a finger to his lips. Hannah lowered her voice and whispered, “I mean—damn it.”
He laughed. “You know you could just not curse, right?”
She looped her bag’s shoulder strap over her head, where she’d been wearing it across her body like a seat belt, and placed the whole thing on the workbench. “You know that you could like me for who I am and not try and change me, right?” she tossed back, playful but also tapping into her more negative emotions.
“I mean, who would want to change such a charming, delightful creature as you?” he said, joining her where she stood elbow deep in her bag, digging through her belongings.
“Don’t you try and charm me. I won’t fall for that trick again,” she said, trying to keep up the banter and locate the envelope of letters before she exploded from anticipation.
“Wait, what do you mean again? Are you saying you fell for my charms at some point? Why was I not made aware of this?” He flashed his most winning smile and leaned on the counter with one of his elbows.
“Here it is!” she exclaimed, ignoring his quip and slipping the manila envelope out from the clutch of items she’d started taking with her everywhere she went. She was nearly as excited to share the new articles with Guy as she was to read them herself. He had a pretty good journalistic instinct, and he definitely understood the hunger a good story could build inside a reporter. He’d been helpful and interested and provided some great insights as someone who grew up in the area. Plus, it was nice having somebody to talk to about . . . everything. She’d lived inside her head alone for far too long now.
“Here is what?” he asked, eyeing the package in her hand.
“I finally found more.” Hannah quickly unraveled the string that separated both of them from the next chapter of Evelyn’s story.
“Wait. More letters? As in, more than one?”
Chatting with her mom now and again wasn’t the same as having someone she could text when a thought came to her at ten o’clock at night. Last week, he’d even taken her to the spot on the river where Evelyn fell in while trying to swing the gap, which was still a summer tradition in Senatobia. Hannah had threatened to try out the tradition the whole hike, making Guy grumble and Rosie laugh.
“It’s not safe,” Guy argued with both females following him down the worn backwoods trail.
“I’m a big girl, Guy. I can decide what is safe and what is not safe,” Hannah pushed back, enjoying his willingness to debate and finding it invigorating to be a strong example for Rosie.
“Yeah, Daddy. She’s a grown woman,” Rosie chimed in, and Hannah’s chest filled with a warm pride.
“You two can’t gang up on me,” Guy said. “I’m just the voice of safety.”
They continued like that, ducking through low-hanging branches, and Hannah worried that every shift in the underbrush was a snake, which Guy found hilarious, reassuring Hannah that snakes went into hibernation once it got colder. When they got to the gap, some wise parent or Good Samaritan had removed the rope for the winter, shutting down further jokes about daring deeds. Hannah wasn’t sure if it was the hike or connecting another real place to Evelyn’s story or her growing friendship with the little Franklin family, but she fell asleep that night easily, without remembering to check her phone.
Hannah waved the envelope triumphantly. “Yes! Four letters!”
“Well, that is the best news I have had all day,” he said, tossing his still-extremely-clean rag onto the counter.
“Yeah, no s-h-i-t,” she whispered, checking over her shoulder to make sure that the door to the house was closed. “Me too. By a lot.”
At some point, she’d have to share about Monty’s new business decisions. But for now, she’d let the excitement of discovery hang in the air for a little bit longer.
“Should we read one before we let Carla know I’m home?”
“Hell yeah, we should,” he blurted out, making Hannah’s eyes widen.
“Mr. Franklin! Watch your language.” She feigned shock and horror, trying on the overly exaggerated southern accent Guy liked to use when he was making a point.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I meant hell yeah, we should,” he whispered, mimicking Hannah’s ridiculous attempts to hide her swearing.
“Oh, shut up and listen.” She hit him with his rag, and he recoiled as though she had tossed a grenade. Guy crossed his arms and then put a finger to his lips in a silent promise to stay quiet. Once she was satisfied that he’d behave, Hannah started reading out loud.
October 10, 1935
Dear Mr. Martin,
I have not heard back from your institution, and I have not seen my letters published in your newspaper, so I am assuming that you have not found my story compelling enough for publication just yet. Please do not give up on me. I promise I will get to the point the best I can.
Writing to you has brought a light back into my life that I thought was gone forever. When I was shot, everyone thought I would die. I stayed in the hospital for a year. I had operations, blood transfusions, the flu, pneumonia, heart trouble, a dislocated kidney, and I took enough medications to kill a dog. But at some point, I and everybody else decided I was going to live.
“Oh my God, I love that,” Hannah said, pointing to the first two paragraphs. Writing her story brought a light back into Evelyn’s life, just like researching her story was starting to do for Hannah.
“But I’d kind of like to know who shot her, though. Am I right?” Guy asked, kindly moving her finger out of the way.
“Okay, okay. Read for yourself,” Hannah said, offering to share the letter. He moved in closer, their shoulders touching. She could hear him breathing but also felt each rise and fall of his chest as his arm pressed into hers briefly with each inhale. The soft touch of his flannel and the heat that permeated through from his skin made Hannah want to lean in as they both started reading again.
I lived in the Home for Crippled Children as a student until I was eighteen and then was transferred to the Home for the Incurables once I became of age. I have been here for just over two years. I told one of the other girls here, Diane, about writing these letters to you. She didn’t like it one little bit. She told me that this was my world, and I would have to make my life accordingly. She said I needed to stop thinking about things outside of this place because I was going to live here and die here. I could go out there and visit, and the people out there could come to see me. I could bring them happiness, and they, in turn, could make life more complete for me. But she warned me not even to think that I could go out there to live, for I would never be happy in their world.
“They belong to that world, you to this one, so make your life to fit in here.” Such was Diane’s advice. I couldn’t see it that way—I still don’t see it that way. I think that the world belongs to me as much as to Myrtle or Vivian or anyone else for that matter. So I’m going to keep writing these letters to you. And maybe one day you’ll see fit to put them in the newspaper. But I won’t give up and settle for the small, sad world Diane wants for me.
“She’s so fierce,” Guy added, his breath on her cheek when he spoke, distracting Hannah momentarily and adding to the heady feeling she already got whenever she read Evelyn’s words.
“I think she’s my hero,” Hannah added, not even joking this time. She wanted to get this story out almost as badly as Evelyn had when she typed up the first article. And she was starting to see Guy as an integral part of that process.
I will now pick up where I left off the last time I wrote to you. I think I was telling you about Harry Westbrook, the nineteen-year-old cowpuncher I thought I was in love with that summer. He was braver and more handsome than any of the boys I’d met in town. Harry officially moved across the street with people who were good friends of ours so that he could be near me.
One morning, from across the street, he heard Mother screaming at me. He came rushing over, burst in right through the front door without knocking, which stunned and frightened me because I knew Mother wouldn’t like it. She’d retired to her bedroom already.
He said, “Evelyn, where is your mother?”
“Harry, please don’t go see her. It would only make matters worse.”
“I’m going to see her whether you tell me her location or not. So you might as well tell me where she is.” He was stubborn, and I knew I couldn’t stop him because even after I begged him and tore at his arm to keep him from going upstairs to search for himself, he still insisted. So I gave in and told him that she was in her room.
“Is this it? Is this when the guns come out?” Guy asked, leaning over Hannah’s shoulder even more pronouncedly, pointing to the sentence on the page.
“Shhh. I’m reading,” Hannah scolded. She risked looking up at him but had to stare back at the yellowed article as soon as she’d caught his eye, the sleeping butterflies in her stomach waking up a little more than she’d like.
They stayed in a room for two hours, and what I went through while that door was shut was plenty. When they came out together, Harry and Mother were the best of friends. I don’t know what he said to this very day, but Harry became my first boyfriend.
It was a strange sensation having a boyfriend. Mother was still stringent and kept us apart as often as possible. But Harry was allowed to sit and talk with me on the front porch after dinner most nights. One evening after Mother went inside to put Daddy to bed, he took my hand in his and kissed it. I thought my heart might explode. I had never felt more beautiful in my entire life.
If Mother had left Harry and I alone, I really do think he would have married me. But that is when Mr. Fred came to stay with us. His place in this mixed-up story of my life started when Mother noticed Mr. Fred’s keen interest in me. He was twice my age, I fourteen, he twenty-eight. I thought then that he was ancient. I was a rather good-looking girl with a nice figure and a smart appearance, who realized it even then. I remember once I was walking down the street with a girlfriend, and several men were working, and as we passed, one stuck to me and said, “You are a very beautiful girl.”
I said, “I know it” and went on.
“Who is this asshole?” Hannah asked herself under her breath, adding a Mr. Fred to her suspects list.
“Shhh, I’m reading,” Guy teased, repeating her earlier complaint, bumping into her side lightly. Hannah pushed back playfully.
“Fine. I’ll keep all my comments till the end.” She straightened the page and reread the line she’d been stuck on.
“You don’t need to make comments. Your facial expressions say everything,” he said, the touch of his eyes on her face tangible. Hannah pretended to keep reading, hoping he wouldn’t notice the blush she was sure must be visible on her neck and cheeks.
Mr. Fred seemed to think I was just about as beautiful as anybody. He was from Memphis and staying in Senatobia for a little while, looking for some farmland. I could always feel his eyes on me. Somehow Mother and Daddy liked Mr. Fred and wanted me to go with him. Well, Mother wanted me to go with him. Daddy was getting sicker and sicker every day and was far too ill to understand what Mother was trying to do.
“He has money and can take you the places you want to go,” she’d say. “He’s not just some silly boy who wants to be necking all the time. He has sense. He’s a grown man. He can take care of you.”
But I didn’t want Mr. Fred to take care of me. I wanted Harry to take care of me, but my mother told me that she would take away her permission for Harry if I didn’t start to entertain Mr. Fred.
It started with sitting together in the evenings. He would read to me. Sonnets from Shakespeare. Poems by Lord Byron. Sometimes it felt like I was in a schoolroom the way he would go on and on about stories and poetry and even politics, which I had less interest in than all the other things. But I thought I loved Harry.
So, I sat with Mr. Fred, and I smiled at Mr. Fred, and I made sure that Mr. Fred got the best piece of meat at the dinner table, and I smiled at him as he walked up the stairs to his room every night.
I still had not been allowed to go on a single date with Harry, but Mother told me as long as I let Mr. Fred take me riding that she’d allow me to go to the movies alone with Harry. Of course, I didn’t tell Harry about any of this. What fellow would like to know that his girl was going out with another guy? But I thought about that old saying. You know the one? The one about what you don’t know can’t hurt you. So, I agreed to go riding with Mr. Fred. It was a decision I would soon come to regret.
I hate to be a bother, but I must leave the story there for now. I will write again as soon as I’m able. Please continue to consider my submission for publication if you do please, sir.
I am eternally in your debt,
Evelyn
CHAPTER 21
Hannah lowered the papers in front of her, the lighthearted vibe gone. Evelyn wasn’t perfect. She was rebellious and more than a touch vain, yet Hannah couldn’t help but respect her bravery and resilience.
“I can’t believe they forced their daughter to go out with a man twice her age,” Guy said, the first one to talk. “It makes me sick to my stomach. That girl was barely older than Rosie is right now. How in heaven’s name did anyone think that was a good idea?”
“It’s pretty mind-blowing now but normal back then, maybe?” Hannah asked, equally stunned and offended by what was just the newest atrocity in Evelyn’s life they had learned of.
“You know what else was ‘normal’ back then? Prohibition. Segregation. Jim Crow laws. Lynching. Normal for 1929 doesn’t mean it’s okay.”
Hannah glanced over at Guy. He was angry. She could tell in one look that this most recent submission had touched a very tender nerve.
“Oh, I’m not defending it. I mean, add to your list sexism, sexual harassment, little access to birth control, rape culture, women treated as second-class citizens. The list goes on. Just looking at the historical context.”
“Screw the historical context. I have a daughter. Who the hell could sell off their kid like that?” Guy asked, slamming his fist down on the counter and sending a surprised jolt through Hannah, scattering all the tingling, warm feelings they’d been exchanging during the reading of the article. He blew out a long, hard breath and scratched at the stubble on his chin. Noticing her stunned stance, Guy rubbed a hand across his mouth, looking a little embarrassed that he couldn’t get his emotions entirely under control.
Surprised at his outburst, Hannah also found she was feeling something different from shock. She wasn’t going to say it out loud, but she kind of liked seeing Guy lose it a little bit. He was always so calm and focused, and he spoke like a teacher who had the instructions for every moment in life written in front of him. But Evelyn’s story had touched him in a way that made him look up from his sheet of directions and ask questions. And that was more attractive than his charming smile or flattering words.
“You okay?” Hannah asked, almost tempted to reach out and put a hand on his shoulder but holding back, willing to acknowledge the effect Guy had on her but not interested in indulging those feelings. Not yet, at least. Not until after she saw Alex, heard what he had to say, figured some things out in her own life. She held on to the papers tighter, keeping her hand in check.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” He pushed away from the workbench, where he’d been leaning, and headed back toward the still-open hood of the Buick. “I guess it just hit a little close to home. You know?”
He searched through a tra
y of tools on the ground in front of the car. It seemed like Guy didn’t want to talk about his reaction, but that only made Hannah want to ask more questions. That predilection made her a good reporter but a terrible friend. She hadn’t figured out how to separate the two yet.
“I feel it too. It makes me sick reading about all the things that happened to Evelyn, but you know what makes me furious? It wasn’t just Evelyn, right? I think that’s why I want to tell this story so badly—for Evelyn, sure, but also because I think it makes something inside all of us ask some hard questions,” she said, following him to his spot on the other side of the garage.
“Being a parent is never easy, but stories like that, I don’t know, it does make you worry.”
“Yeah, when I was Rosie’s age, I barely even wanted to talk to my dad about anything going on in my life. Felt weird that I was getting boobs and my period and . . .”
Guy grimaced, and Hannah stopped her train of thought before it went too far. If swearing was frowned upon, then talking about puberty with a member of the opposite sex was probably downright taboo.
“Rosie’s still pretty good about talking to me. And my sisters said they would help her when the time comes for”—he waved his hand in the air while holding a wrench—“all of that.”
“So.” Hannah stepped even closer to Guy now, not just for proximity’s sake but because she didn’t want Rosie to hear her next question if she happened to walk into the garage during their discussion. “Rosie’s mom is completely out of the picture, then?”
It was a bold ask, and Guy kept working for a second like he hadn’t heard her, making the blush return to Hannah’s cheeks. She was about to go along with his fiction and excuse herself to go inside and check on dinner, but Guy spoke up first.
“Megan and I met our sophomore year. We dated all through high school, but senior year she got pregnant.” He checked Hannah’s reaction out of the corner of his eye. She was more than invested—she was wide-eyed and riveted. She tried to tell herself she was listening like a reporter, unbiased, interested in a good story. But she knew that was all BS. She’d been wanting to ask for a long time, to know more about Rosie, of course, but also to know more about Guy. He was a good father, a remarkable father, a father to Rosie in the way that Patrick Williamson had been a father to Hannah. But what led to this smart, charismatic, attractive man doing all of this alone?
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