“Joe’s not dead. Reverend Adder called this morning to tell us the body wasn’t his. The authorities in St. Johns now believe it was the body of a young rumrunner who fell off a boat.”
I pushed myself up to a seated position and didn’t make a peep about spending time with Joe in the shed the night before. “Well . . . I’m relieved it wasn’t him.”
“I know you must be”—she sat down on the edge of my bed—“confused about how you’re supposed to feel about Joe.”
“I’m just worried about him. A shocking number of people seem so passionate about wanting to hurt him.”
“After all that talk of an elopement, though . . . I don’t want you to get your heart broken.”
I picked at the edge of my quilted bedspread.
She stretched my brown curl across the width of her right thigh. “I know how it feels to be told you’re not supposed to love a certain person.”
I swallowed down a thickness in my throat and changed the subject. “Why didn’t you ever tell me Daddy was a bootlegger?”
She lifted her head. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Who told you that?”
“Mildred said Daddy picked up a crate of whiskey from their house that Christmas Eve.”
She swiveled to her right and faced me directly. “Why must we keep dwelling on that night, Hanalee? It was just a terrible, tragic accident, for heaven’s sake.”
“But some parts about it still don’t feel right.” I wrapped my hand around her left wrist. “Be honest with me, Mama. Was Daddy a bootlegger?”
She clenched her teeth, and then she nodded. “We had trouble making ends meet after the war. Europe didn’t need our crops anymore. Prices fell.”
“And that’s what he was doing Christmas Eve?”
“Yes.” Mama closed her eyes. “He received a telephone call for a moonshine delivery, right before we were to head out to church. He was already dressed and ready to go with us, but he insisted he needed to make that delivery because the money would be good. It would pay for Christmas.”
I lowered my head. “He risked his life, just to make sure we celebrated a nice Christmas?”
“That’s how your father was. I never met a man with a bigger heart. That’s why I loved him so dearly.”
“Who called him?” I asked.
“He wouldn’t say.” Mama’s shoulders fell. “He wouldn’t tell me where he was going. He simply said he’d earn us a nice bit of money and be home by the time we returned from church.”
“Have you ever wondered”—I scooted closer to her across the mattress—“if something happened to him during that delivery that would have made him stumble into the road in front of Joe’s car?”
“No, not at all.” She pulled her wrist out of my fingers. “Fate simply didn’t work in the favor of Joe and your father that night. No matter what Joe might have told you, Daddy’s death was nothing more than a matter of terrible timing and the mistakes people make when it comes to liquor.”
“Then why does Uncle Clyde feel guilty about Joe’s imprisonment?”
Mama’s face hardened. “Your stepfather does not feel guilty, Hanalee. Stop saying such things.”
“Uncle Clyde told me he wants to send Joe to work with a colleague up in Seattle who would be kind to Joe—to appease his own guilt over what happened that night. He called Joe a ‘sacrifice.’ A sacrifice he made to protect me.”
My mother leaned away from me, and her mouth twisted into that difficult-to-watch grimace people make before they’re about to either scream or cry—but she did neither. She simply stared at me with that about-to-explode expression, her lips trembling, her eyes crinkled and bloodshot. “When did he tell you that?”
“Yesterday, when he spoke with me in private on the front porch.” I glanced toward my open doorway. “Where is Uncle Clyde?”
“He went to work early. Joe’s potential drowning troubled him, so he didn’t sleep much last night, and he wanted to—”
“You see what I mean?” I leaned forward. “Joe makes him feel guilty.”
Mama stood up from my bed and pressed a hand to her stomach. “No. I will not let you lead me down this road of suspicion again.”
“Do you think Daddy went to the Dry Dock on Christmas Eve?”
She blinked as if startled. “The Dock?”
I nodded. “Do you think the owners were the ones who made the request for moonshine?”
“I already told you, the Franklins haven’t sold alcohol since Oregon first banned the sale of liquor, back when you were just a child.”
“Fleur says they have a sign on the door that reads ‘We reserve the right to serve whom we please.’ Do you know anything about that?”
“I’m aware of that sign.” She brushed hair out of her eyes. “That’s why I avoid the restaurant.”
“In case they order me to leave?”
She rubbed her right arm, the same way Mildred scratched at her elbow when avoiding prickly subjects. “Hanalee, it’s true, some people around here have a problem with your skin color. I’m not going to deny that fact. It wouldn’t be fair to you if I pretended otherwise.”