“What is it, Iris?” Rhetta asked, clearly mystified by her great-granddaughter’s behavior. “What have you got there?”
Iris didn’t answer. Instead, she took another halting step, then whipped a sheet of paper from behind her back and held it out to Christy-Lynn. “Pink fishes are my favorite too,” she blurted in lispy toddlerese, before scurrying from the kitchen.
Rhetta sat speechless, a hand pressed to her mouth as she stared at the messy pink Nemo her great-granddaughter had just bestowed on Christy-Lynn. “Six words,” she said quietly, counting them off on gnarled fingers. “That’s the most she’s said at a stretch in I don’t know how long.”
Christy-Lynn wasn’t sure how to respond, or how to process the unfamiliar wave of emotion she had just experienced. “She was just mimicking me,” she told Rhetta sheepishly. “Because I told her I like pink fish.”
Rhetta was smiling, the first genuine smile Christy-Lynn had ever seen cross her face. “She likes you.”
“She was just being sweet. She doesn’t even know me.”
“Oh, I think she does.” There was a strange gravity to Rhetta’s words, an unsettling weight that made Christy-Lynn go very still. “Children know things, like who’s kind and who’s not, who’s genuine and who’s not. She knows exactly who you are, Christy-Lynn.” Rhetta’s voice fractured again, and she cleared her throat. “We both do.”
THIRTY-ONE
Sweetwater, Virginia
June 24, 2017
Christy-Lynn shot straight up in bed, adrenaline still pumping like needles through her limbs. It took a few moments for the stark physicality of the dream to fade—not that it ever did entirely. The swimming faces and garbled words were always within easy reach, a dark and watery backdrop to her waking hours. She had hoped convincing Rhetta to accept the check would end or at least reduce their frequency. Instead, the dreams seemed to be coming more frequently, leaving her too wired to go back to sleep and in a near zombielike state the next morning.
Eventually, her heart began to slow, and she noticed the steady drum of rain against the windows. Lying back, she closed her eyes, willing her mind to quiet, but it was no good. Every nerve in her body was on alert, like violin strings tuned too tightly.
Still shaky, she slipped out of bed and padded to the kitchen for her ritual cup of Earl Grey. As she waited for the water to heat, she stared at the bright-pink fish grinning at her from the refrigerator door. In her wildest dreams, she couldn’t have imagined a day when there’d be kiddie art tacked up in her kitchen, and yet there it was.
She turned away as the microwave dinged, then frowned as she caught what sounded like muffled mewling coming from the other side of the sliding glass doors. When the sound came again, she stepped to the door and peered out. It didn’t take long to spot the source of the commotion.
“Well, well. What have we here?” Without thinking, Christy-Lynn eased back the door to get a better look at the miserably drenched feline. “Looks like someone forgot their foul weather gear.” Too late, she realized her error. Mistaking sympathy for an invitation, the cat squeezed between her ankles and bolted into the kitchen with another strangled yowl.
Christy-Lynn eyed her sodden guest with dismay. “I’m afraid you’ve knocked on the wrong door, sir. It’s not personal. Pets just aren’t my thing.”
The cat was unmoved, continuing to stare up at her with pitiful amber eyes. She heaved a sigh, her resolve beginning to falter. She hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be wet and cold and have no place to sleep.
“All right. All right. You can spend the night but don’t get any ideas about making it permanent. And I hope you’re not expecting dinner because I’m fresh out of cat food.”
Another yowl, followed by more golden-eyed pathos.
“Fine,” she groaned, heading for the fridge. “I have milk. But that’s it.”
She filled a saucer then stood by as the cat greedily emptied it. How long had it been since the poor thing had had any real food? In the pantry, she located a can of tuna, opened it, and turned it out onto a second saucer.
By the time the Earl Grey finished brewing, both dishes were clean, and her guest had turned his attentions to matters of appearance. Christy-Lynn carried her mug to the living room and settled on the love seat to observe the stray’s careful ablutions. She was surprised when after only a few minutes she felt her lids grow heavy. She let them close, melting against the cushions. Perhaps if she slept here instead of in her bed, the dream wouldn’t find her.
She woke several hours later to a flood of warm yellow light spilling through the living room windows. Stiff and dazed, she sat up, confused as to why she was waking up on the love seat instead of her bed. And then she spotted the orange-and-white fur ball curled on the arm of the love seat, and the events of the previous night drifted back.
As if sensing her eyes, the cat lifted his head, blinking up with a blend of curiosity and sleepy annoyance, then stood, stretched, and jumped to the floor, making a beeline for the kitchen and the sliding glass doors.
“Just like a man,” Christy-Lynn muttered drily, pulling back the door to let him out. “Slinking away the minute the sun’s up.”
She watched as he darted down the back steps and disappeared from sight, then went to make coffee. Missy would be by in a few hours for lunch, her first guest since Hank had finished the kitchen updates, and she wanted everything to be perfect.
Missy was late as usual but looked flawless in a sleeveless tunic and white linen slacks. She pressed her lips to Christy-Lynn’s cheek as she stepped through the door, leaving behind one of her signature fuchsia lip prints. “For you,” she said, handing Christy-Lynn a small gift bag brimming with tissue paper. “Just a little gift to mark the milestone. You can open it after I’m gone if you want. But right now—” She paused, grinning as she held up a plastic grocery bag. “I brought stuff to make mimosas. And before you say no, I got sparkling cider for you. Or you can just drink plain old OJ, but it’s not nearly as much fun without the bubbles.”
Missy whistled appreciatively as they walked into the newly remodeled kitchen. “I still can’t believe what you’ve done with this place. I know I saw it while the work was going on, but now that it’s finished—wow.”
Christy-Lynn couldn’t help beaming. It was her favorite room since the renovations. “Thanks. The farm sink and vintage hardware were Hank’s ideas. He completely nailed the look I was after.”
Missy was wrestling with the champagne cork now, the bottle wedged between her knees. She flinched as it released with a clean, sharp pop. “Did you ever decide what to do with that spare room?”
Christy-Lynn thought of the room next to her bedroom, crowded at the moment with the leftover bits and pieces of her decorating efforts. “Not yet, but I’m leaning toward an office. I was thinking about picking up a few editing projects again. I miss my writers. And the truth is, with the shop up and running and the bungalow mostly finished, I have too much time on my hands.”
Missy had located two champagne flutes and was pouring the orange juice. “Maybe you should think about filling that time with some fun. There’s a guy who works with Daddy, a CPA. Nice-looking. Divorced. No kids.”
Christy-Lynn shot her a look. “Why don’t we have some lunch?”
Missy feigned a pout. “All right, I get it. Time to change the subject.”
“Exactly.” Christy-Lynn pulled two shrimp and avocado salads from the fridge and headed for the deck. “Speaking of kids, where are the boys today?”
“On a campout with the neighbor’s kids.” Missy handed Christy-Lynn a champagne flute and settled herself into one of the deck chairs. “What is it about boys sleeping in tents?”