“Was your granddaughter in love with my husband?”
Rhetta looked mildly startled. “She was twenty-five years old. What on earth did she know about love?” She sighed, closing her eyes again briefly. “Though I suppose she thought she was. She certainly wouldn’t listen to anything I tried to tell her. I warned her what would come of messing with a married man, talked till I was blue in the face. And then one day she came home and said she was pregnant. There wasn’t much sense talking after that. The damage was done.”
“Yes, I suppose it was,” Christy-Lynn said, wishing she’d never asked. But she had asked, and now there was nothing to do but sit stonily as Rhetta unraveled the time line of Honey and Stephen’s affair.
“Don’t get me wrong. I love that little girl to pieces, but I’m a bit long in the tooth to be raising a child. I’ve already raised three, God help me, and only one of them mine. Theresa—that was Honey’s mama—got herself pregnant by the first boy who offered her a ride in his truck, then ran off and left me to raise her daughter. Only saw her twice after that—the first time she’d gotten herself in a mess and needed money. The last time was to leave me with Ray—Honey’s brother. And now there’s Iris.”
“How old is she?”
“Three in March—the seventeenth.”
Christy-Lynn worked out the math as her eyes slid to the little girl in front of the TV. She had been conceived in July. Of course. Stephen had been in LA that summer, consulting on the screenplay for An Uncommon Assassin and rubbing elbows with director Aaron Rothman. And Honey apparently.
“Are you all right?” Rhetta asked. “You look a bit rattled, not that I blame you. This must all come as a terrible shock, as if you haven’t had enough of those already. Can I get you something stronger than lemonade? Made right over the county line. My son would throw seven fits if he knew I kept a jar in the house, but every once in a while, you need a little kick to set you right. I’d be happy to pour you a drop.”
Christy-Lynn shook her head. It would take more than a drop of West Virginia moonshine to set her right. “No,” she managed finally. “No, thank you. I don’t . . . I’m sorry. I have to go.” And just like that, she was off the couch and moving toward the door, suddenly desperate to put as many miles as possible between herself and Riddlesville.
Rhetta got to her feet with a bit of effort. “I’m so sorry about all of this. You seem like a nice woman, certainly not one who deserved to learn what you did today. I know it’s too late, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry Honey caused so much pain. She wasn’t a bad girl, just . . . selfish.”
Christy-Lynn fumbled for a response but could find none. With a curt nod, she stepped out onto the porch, nearly tripping over the geranium pots as she scrambled down the steps and back to the Rover.
She started the engine and managed to make it all the way back to the main road before slamming the car into park and slumping over the wheel. She had come for the truth, and now she had it. Four years. They’d been together four years. And there was a child. The reality was simply too much to grasp.
The shaking hit her all at once, confusion mixed with disbelief coursing through her like poison. Stephen—a father. It was inconceivable, the idea utterly foreign to her concept of the man she had married, the one who hadn’t batted an eye when she said she didn’t want children. But there was no denying it. One look at Iris with her dimpled chin and violet eyes was all the proof she needed.
Had it—had she—been planned? Or was the pregnancy an accident, the by-product of one careless night when passion had eclipsed reason and caution had been thrown to the wind? The thought made her stomach knot, but it was better than revisiting the possibility, as inexcusable as it might be, that the thing that had ultimately driven Stephen into the arms of another woman was the one thing—the only thing—she had ever denied him.
The thought brought a clammy wave of nausea, and for a moment, she thought she might actually be sick. Lowering the window, she sucked in a dizzying breath. She needed to get herself together. She couldn’t just sit in the middle of the road and go to pieces, and at the moment, she was dangerously close to doing just that. She needed to get out of Riddlesville—now.
She was reaching for the gearshift, thinking about calling Missy as she had promised to, when her cell phone went off. She dragged it from her purse and answered without looking, wondering if there really was such a thing as telepathy.
“Missy, I was just about to call you.”
“It’s not Missy.”
“Wade?”
“I was worried about you.”
Something about the simple words caused Christy-Lynn to crumple. She let out a gut-wrenching sob, unable to check the sudden torrent of tears flowing down her cheeks.
“Talk to me, Christy-Lynn. What’s happened? Are you hurt?”
Was she hurt? It was such a ridiculous question she hardly knew how to answer. “No,” she finally managed, gulping down a fresh sob before it could fully form. “Yes . . . I don’t know.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m here.” She paused to wipe her nose on the back of her hand. “I saw her, talked to her.”
“And what else?”
“He has a daughter,” she blurted. “Stephen and Honey had a daughter.”
“Jesus . . .”
“Iris. Her name is Iris.” She closed her eyes, slumping forward to lean her head against the steering wheel. “She’s three.”
“Christy-Lynn, you can’t be sure. It could be—”
“No, it couldn’t. She’s his. I’m sure of it.”
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“So how did you leave it?”
“I didn’t. I just got up and walked out. Rhetta . . . Mrs. Rawlings said she’d answer any questions I had, but then there was Iris, and I couldn’t sit there another minute. I just . . . left.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m in the car, about to head back.”
“Christy-Lynn, you can’t. You’ve been driving all day. You’ve got to be exhausted.”
Her throat ached, and she could barely breathe. “I can’t stay here.”
“Please promise me you won’t drive tonight. Find a motel and get some sleep. You can leave first thing in the morning.” When she said nothing, he prompted her. “Promise me.”
“Yes. Okay. I’ll find a motel.”
“And some food, since I’m guessing you haven’t eaten. I’ll check on you in the morning.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I’ll check on you in the morning,” he repeated firmly.
“All right then.” Her thumb was poised to end the call when she hesitated. “Wade?”
“I’m still here.”
“Thank you.”
“No sweat. Get some rest.”
Christy-Lynn’s room at the Conner Fork Day’s Inn was clean and quiet. She dropped her bags on the bed, stripped out of her clothes, and headed for the shower, determined to scrub away the lingering traces of stale grease and cigarette smoke still clinging to her skin and hair.
She had no idea how long she stood there under the scalding stream or how long it took to finally cry herself out, but eventually she emerged from the bathroom, pink-skinned and spent. She donned a T-shirt and leggings, then flipped on the television, hoping to numb out with an old movie, but it was no use. Like a video on an endless loop, the day’s events kept replaying in her head, and the facts couldn’t be denied.