Edith ran upstairs to her room and pulled out her cigarettes from the nightstand. It took her three tries to light her cigarette, because her hands were shaking so badly. She moved to the front window and stared out at the sky above the river, seeing instead a black night illuminated with fire. She took a long drag, feeling the nicotine calm her, felt it seep through her blood like poison.
For the first time in a long time, she thought of the faceless woman packing her husband’s suitcase, folding each shirt, each pair of pants, rolling each pair of socks and tucking them carefully inside. Edith saw her writing the letter and placing it among the clothing, each letter, each word in perfect penmanship, the ink thick and black on the paper from pressing too hard. She saw the woman closing the suitcase and locking it, knowing her husband would never read the letter—the letter that remained under Edith’s refrigerator and likely would stay there forever.
Edith took another long drag, closed her eyes, and imagined she could see the night exploding and hear the river hissing as it welcomed the dead and dying as they fell from the sky. But when she opened her eyes she saw only the sea-glass wind chime outside her window, singing softly in the spring breeze.
chapter 17
LORALEE
Loralee stumbled into the house, closing the door behind her with her foot, her arms overloaded with shopping bags she needed to hide before Merritt saw them, wanting to avoid the question about where the money had come from. Her hair dripped onto the shoulders of her raincoat and the paper bags as she shuffled them behind the blue and white sofa in the front parlor. She’d wait until Merritt left the house and then ask Owen to help her bring them upstairs. They were all for him, anyway. Except for two skirts, a bathing suit, a pair of shorts, a dress, and a couple of knit tops for Merritt.
She leaned against the back of the sofa for a brief moment to catch her breath. She should have brought Owen with her so that she would have been guaranteed a correct size, but she’d had a doctor’s appointment beforehand and she hadn’t wanted to drag him in with her. All those ladies’ doctors always had pictures on the walls showing parts of women’s bodies that Owen was happily ignorant of, and he would—hopefully—remain so for at least a few more years.
After a deep, sustaining breath, she pushed herself away from the sofa and went back out onto the porch. The heavy sky lit up again with a fork of lightning as the rain fell in sheets. Loralee turned her face upward, breathing in the scent of the rain-soaked marsh and the salty air, wishing she could bottle the fragrance. She’d make a million dollars selling it to all the displaced residents of the coastal South who longed for home.
Smiling to herself, she moved to one of the wobbly wicker tables on the porch, where she’d set her prize find. She’d been on the way from the doctor’s office near Beaufort Memorial when she’d passed a garage sale. Her mama’s words had seemed so loud that for a moment Loralee thought she was in the Navigator with her. One person’s trash is another person’s treasure. Some of the most priceless finds have no real value except for the amount of love and memories they hold. Loralee had written that down in her journal as soon as she’d found a parking spot.
It was a Singer sewing machine. Not one of the old black metal ones with a foot pump like her mama had had, but one that was probably from the seventies, with an electric cord. It was cream-colored plastic and metal but was in perfect working order, according to the woman selling it, who had happily run a piece of fabric through just to prove it.
There was a photograph in one of Robert’s albums that showed a young Merritt with her mother at a kitchen table covered with bolts of fabric and a sewing machine that looked a lot like this one. Loralee knew she was taking a chance, rushing things with Merritt. But life was like that, keeping time on a clock with fewer hours on it than what you’d come to expect.
She lifted the machine and brought it into the house, leaving it on the foyer table. She was winded and looked longingly at the sofa in the parlor, wondering how long she could lie down before somebody noticed her. Owen shouted from the kitchen, followed by another shout that was definitely from Merritt.
Moving as fast as she could, and ignoring the dripping water from her raincoat and the wet footsteps from her high-heeled boots, she made her way into the kitchen, pausing at the threshold for a moment before anybody saw her.