Edith straightened, regarding the younger woman with narrowed eyes, recalling that Deborah was the daughter of a policeman, too. “You sound very sure of yourself.”
Deborah reached behind her to deposit a pile of weeds in C.J.’s old Radio Flyer wagon. Edith eyed it ruefully, remembering how C.J. had never wanted to be pulled in it, but instead had used it to create crashes of epic proportions involving all of his stuffed animals and the large oak that was unfortunately positioned at the end of the driveway. Both the wagon and the tree still bore the scars.
Deborah placed her gloved hands on her thighs and looked up at Edith. “Because ever since I’ve known you, you’ve liked to keep things to yourself.”
Edith just nodded, refocusing her attention on the azaleas as more and more wilted blooms plummeted to the ground at her feet like little sacrifices at the altar of truth.
Realizing that particular conversation was over, Deborah said, “Did you hear about the eight-foot alligator they caught in a shrimp net at Harbor Island last weekend?”
“I read that in the paper. They’re lucky none of those shrimpers lost a finger—or worse.”
“That’s not all they caught in the net, you know.” Deborah moved to the right, closer to the lopsided statue, rolling the wagon with her. “They called my daddy to go see, which is how I know about it. I don’t think they put it in the paper yet, because they thought it was just trash. They’ll probably print it later in the week, once they file the police report.”
“What was it?”
“Daddy thinks it might be part of a plane that exploded over Beaufort in 1955. Do you remember that? I was only eight at the time, but I don’t think it’s something a person ever forgets. My mother was screaming up and down the hallway for all of us kids to get out of the house. She thought the roof was on fire.”
Edith stilled, the trimmer stalled over an azalea branch like a stay of execution. “What makes him think it’s from a plane?”
“There was still some paint on the metal—navy, he said. And it looked like the letter ‘N.’ He had to go look it up, but the plane that blew up was Northeast Airlines.”
Edith put down the trimmer. “Would you like some iced tea or lemonade? I need to go get myself a glass. This heat makes me so parched.”
“Yes, ma’am—whichever one you’re getting for yourself. Thank you.” She sat back on her heels, her eyes straying to the statue of Saint Michael. “He’s crooked. You should have Cal or somebody smooth out the dirt beneath him, or else I think he might fall over in the next storm. He’s already missing a hand; wouldn’t do for a saint to lose both. How could he perform miracles then?”
She’d said it lightly, but Edith couldn’t find the humor in a powerless saint. She forced a small smile, then went inside. She had just pulled out the pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator when the door to the kitchen swung open and C.J. walked in, pulling on the hand of a petite sandy-haired girl who trailed behind him.
“Hello, Mother,” he said, his father’s grin spreading across his face. He stepped closer and kissed Edith on the cheek. “I’ve decided to come home for the weekend and brought somebody special.”
The girl waited until C.J. pulled her forward, putting his arm around her shoulders in a proprietary way. “Mother, this is Cecelia Gibbes. She doesn’t like to be called CeCe except by me, so everybody else calls her Cecelia. Isn’t that right, sugar?” He squeezed her to him and kissed the top of her head, and for a brief moment Edith thought she recognized something in the girl’s eyes, something that reminded her of the panicked look of an animal caught in a cage.
Cecelia held a hand out to Edith and she took it, feeling small bones as delicate as a bird’s. Her eyes were a warm golden brown, the color of the marsh grass in winter. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Heyward.” She met Edith’s eyes briefly before turning them back to C.J.
The girl seemed dwarfed by him, and not just in size but in personality. She looked at C.J. with adoration when he spoke, and seemed to wait for his approval before she said anything. Edith felt her heart sink, seeing her younger self standing in the same kitchen and meeting Calhoun’s mother. The only thing that had changed in the intervening years was the wallpaper.
“It’s good to meet you, too, Cecelia.” Edith looked down at her crumpled and dirty skirt, then up at C.J. with reproach. “I wish I’d known you were coming so I could have cleaned up and had a room prepared for our guest.”
“You look just fine, Mrs. Heyward,” Cecelia reassured her. “And I’ll be happy to put sheets on my bed. I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”
C.J.’s affable smile dimmed. “She doesn’t mind, CeCe. What else does she have to do?” He faced his mother with a wide grin. “What’s for dinner? It was a long drive from Columbia and I’m starved.”