“That’s not my heritage, though, and Oaxaca isn’t my country. I was born here. I’m an American. I barely speak Spanish.”
He sounded annoyed, even defensive. But maybe that was how he dealt with it, the hard fact that his dad was there, in Oaxaca, instead of here, where he could be part of his son’s life. Dru had wondered about him—whether it had been Erik’s father’s choice, or Winona’s, that he stay away. If the tongues in town had an answer to that mystery, they’d kept still about it.
“I’m taking the Westins a meal,” she said, indicating the bag. “I told the girls I’d pick up a pizza on my way back. I hope you’ll stay.”
Erik thanked her and started toward the house.
“Congratulations, by the way,” Dru said after him.
He turned, brows raised.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you since you got your new job, and I heard Kate said yes.”
“She did. Last week. Her mom loves me,” he added.
“Charla, yes, I know.” Dru made an effort not to roll her eyes at the idea of Charla’s devotion. “It pays to have your fiancée’s mother in your corner.”
Erik’s grin was quick, spontaneous, a reflection of his total joy, and lasted only moments before he seemed to remember AJ, the terrible circumstances, and the uncertainty of the outcome. The memory of his engagement to Kate, this happy time in their lives, would forever be marred by this, Dru thought, no matter how it turned out.
The Westins lived on the east side of Wyatt in the Mustang Hill subdivision, an older neighborhood of winding streets, lined with a mix of Craftsman bungalows, small stone-faced Tudors, and Queen Anne cottages. The overall effect was charming, a throwback to another era, one that might have been pictured in a Norman Rockwell illustration for the Saturday Evening Post. When Dru and Shea had first moved out here from Houston, after Dru accepted the teaching position at the middle school, she had looked at houses in this neighborhood, but the yards were too small. Although most of them were beautifully landscaped, they were the size of postage stamps.
It had been a stretch financially, buying the three acres of land and the farmhouse on the outskirts of town. The house, built in 1910, needed constant attention, but Dru loved it. And over time she’d gotten pretty handy at plumbing and wiring. Last summer, with Shea’s help, she’d gutted the laundry room, exposing the oak beams and longleaf-pine flooring. She’d learned enough that she was ready to tackle the kitchen. She wanted to enlarge it and take down the walls that separated it from the breakfast nook and dining room. Her catering business was growing; she could use the space.
Dru pulled to the curb in front of the Westins’ tidy bungalow. Evening shadows encroached on it, softening the porch corners, erasing the eaves. The windows were dark, the driveway empty. No one was home. Dru’s relief felt wrong when she thought of where the Westins were, the terrible task confronting them.
She was on the front porch with the sack of food when she heard a car approach, and turning to look, her heart faltered on recognizing Joy’s Suburban. Gene was at the wheel, looking grim. Joy was staring in Dru’s direction but not with any kind of recognition, or even animation. Gene parked in front of the garage, and as he and Joy were getting out, the next-door neighbor’s front door opened, and TC, the Westins’ eight-year-old son, shot across the yard, flinging himself at Gene, throwing his arms around his dad’s hips. Gene tousled his hair, saying something that sounded like “Hey, little buddy.”
TC tilted back his head, looking up at Gene. “Did you find Becca, Dad? Did you bring her home?”
Gene knelt in front of TC on the sidewalk. “We did find her,” he said, “but we didn’t get to bring her home. Not yet. We couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Gene looked at Joy, but she was mute, her face knotted with grief.
Dru’s throat closed. She met the neighbor’s eyes. Sharon Jefferson shook her head. How awful. She might have spoken the words aloud.
Gene took TC’s hand. “Let’s go inside, okay?”
He gave no indication he knew Dru was there until he reached the porch steps when she—not knowing what else to do—stepped forward and said how sorry she was. He stopped and thanked her then—thanked her! He looked hollow eyed and haggard, as if he’d aged twenty years. She felt terrible for him. She felt like running with the bag of food to her car. What use was a meal? She shouldn’t have come. But here was Joy—and as Gene unlocked the front door, TC clinging to his free hand—Dru reached for her, enveloping her in a one-armed hug, murmuring her regret, her useless apology.
Joy tolerated Dru’s attention without reciprocating it.
“I brought a meal, some chicken, a pasta salad,” Dru said, releasing Joy.
“It was kind of you,” Joy said, “but you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”
“It was no trouble,” Dru protested. Joy was dry-eyed, and Dru wondered if she was in shock, if there was someone she should call. Was there family close by? She and Joy had been out of touch long enough that Dru couldn’t remember.
“I’ve got food prepared, too,” Sharon said. “I’ll just go and get it.”
Dru would never be certain if the Westins invited her into their home, or if she took it upon herself to follow them inside. She’d once known them better, Joy more than Gene, but that had been back when Shea, Kate, and Becca had been inseparable. Although it had been a while—a few years, in fact—Dru remembered the layout of the house, and while Joy, Gene, and TC went into the great room, she went to the kitchen and unloaded the food, stowing the dishes in the refrigerator. The shelves weren’t entirely empty, but looking at them, Dru would have bet Joy planned to grocery shop in the next day or two. She could do it, Dru thought, if Joy would let her.
Closing the refrigerator door, she looked around, feeling helpless, wondering what else she could do. There must be family to notify, funeral arrangements to make. But the house was so quiet. The phone wasn’t ringing; no one else was here. Where was Pastor Ingalls, or any of the folks from United Methodist, where the Westins attended church? Dru was a member there, too, although she hadn’t been in a while. She didn’t go as often as she had when Shea had lived at home. She didn’t like attending alone.
She walked back through the house to the great room, thinking she would offer to call Pastor Ingalls before she left. Joy was sitting on an ottoman, and Gene was sitting on the sofa, holding TC between his knees, telling him that Becca was in heaven.
“She’s an angel now?” TC asked.
“Yes,” Joy said. “She’s your angel, and she’ll always be with you.”
TC doodled a pattern with the tip of his index finger on Gene’s jeans-clad thigh. “When can she come home?”
Dru’s heart broke a little more, hearing that. How could a child understand a thing like this when even the parents couldn’t accept it—that their own child had predeceased them?