“Have you thought this through, Christy-Lynn? I mean really thought it through?”
“I had just hung up with Stephen’s attorney when you came into the store today.”
“So . . . that’s a yes.”
“It’s the right thing to do, Wade. I don’t want Stephen’s money. Or anything that reminds me of him.”
“His daughter isn’t a reminder?”
“Yes,” she said, not looking at him as she filled two mugs. “She is. Every time I look at her, I see Stephen. And Honey. And it hurts. But someone has to take responsibility for the man’s child.”
“And you think that someone is you?”
“You didn’t see where she’s living, Wade—how she’s living. She’s three years old. She’s going to need things. Who’s going to give them to her? Rhetta? That bastard uncle of hers? If I can make sure she grows up with a decent roof over her head, with an education and some sense of opportunity, why wouldn’t I do it?”
“Sounds like you’ve made up your mind. Why bring me into it?”
“I don’t know really. Because I’ve told you everything else, I suppose. And because I knew what you’d say but wanted to hear it anyway. You may not believe it, but I value your advice, even if I don’t always take it. I don’t want to do something stupid, but I do want to do what’s right.”
She spooned a bit of sugar into one of the mugs and handed it to him, then doctored her own and wandered into the living room, leaving him to follow. There was another growl of thunder—a long, low rumble that vibrated through the floor and walls, followed by the splat of raindrops against the front windows. Christy-Lynn pulled back the curtains, peering out briefly, then settled herself on the love seat.
“So let’s have it,” she said flatly. “Give me your opinion.”
Wade dropped down beside her, sipping thoughtfully while he tried to corral his thoughts. “What you’re talking about is incredibly gracious,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I’d just make sure you’re looking at the whole board. Right now this little girl is all you can think about, and that’s laudable, but what about down the road? There’s a chance you could end up regretting this—or maybe resenting is a better word.”
Christy-Lynn stared into her mug, thoughts clearly churning. “It’s just money,” she said at last. “Money I don’t even want.”
Wade looked at her hard, wondering if she’d thought about the long-term implications of what she was proposing. “Christy-Lynn, if you do this thing, if you set up this trust, you’re tying yourself to that girl—to Stephen’s daughter by another woman—for the next fifteen years. Are you really prepared to do that?”
Her chin came up sharply. “Don’t you think I’ve asked myself that? The truth is I don’t know. I just know I’m not prepared to stand by and do nothing.”
“What did the attorney say when you told him what you wanted to do?”
“Exactly what you’d expect a lawyer to say. That I’m jumping the gun. That I’m letting my emotions get in the way. He thinks I should hire an investigator to check out Honey’s family, to make sure I’m not being scammed.”
Wade tugged thoughtfully at his lower lip. “It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. You’re talking about a lot of money. It never hurts to be careful.”
Christy-Lynn let out a sigh. “Exactly what am I supposed to investigate? Rhetta Rawlings is an octogenarian who lives in a shack and chain-smokes generic cigarettes. What do you think she’s going to do with the money? Buy a Cadillac? Put in a pool? So what if she does?”
“And the uncle?”
Christy-Lynn didn’t bother to hide her disgust. “Reverend Rawlings is far too pious to dirty his hands with Stephen’s money. He’s more concerned with distancing himself from his sister’s sins.”
“Don’t be so sure, Christy-Lynn. Money changes things. Especially people. Look, I’m not trying to tell you what to do. It’s your decision. All I’m saying is don’t rush into it while your emotions are still raw. Take some time and think it through before you pull the trigger.”
Christy-Lynn nodded somberly. “That’s why I asked you over tonight, to be my sounding board. But right now my head is starting to throb. Do you think we could talk about something else?”
“For instance?”
“I don’t know. Your book. We’ve never really done that.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. Anything. How long have you been working on it?”
“Twenty years, give or take.”
Christy-Lynn’s eyes went wide. “Twenty years?”
“Give or take. I started it back when I was in college and then—” He paused, clearing his throat roughly. “Let’s just say I decided to go in another direction.”
“Stephen said you got bored and switched to journalism.”
Wade felt the familiar pulse begin to tick along his temple, the old anger flaring to life. “Did he?”
“That isn’t what happened?”
“No.”
“Then tell me what did.”
“Let’s just say I became . . . disillusioned.”
She nodded, pausing to peer out at the steadily falling rain. “I hear that a lot from my writers, particularly after a fresh rejection lands in the in-box. You need thick skin, no doubt about that. But you’re back at it now, and you seem pretty focused. What’s it about?”
“Not sure really. Over the years, it’s sort of gotten away from me. I was nineteen when I started the damn thing.” He laughed, a harsh sound that sent Tolstoy scurrying. “I was a dreamer back then. I was going to write the great American novel.”
“What happened?”
“That change of direction I mentioned.” He drained his mug then dangled it between his knees. “Back in college, the words used to pour out, but journalism uses an entirely different set of writing muscles. I had no idea it would be so hard to find my fiction chops again.”
“And have you?”
“Maybe. But they’re still pretty flabby. Something’s not working, and I can’t get past it. I’m stuck.”
“At the risk of sounding condescending, I’d be happy to take a look at it, maybe make a few suggestions. Sometimes fresh eyes are all you need. Though given our history, you might feel weird about it.”
“I think we’re past that, don’t you? We’ve eaten each other’s cooking, and I think your cat has a crush on me.” He paused, grinning down at the floor where Tolstoy had reappeared and was now turning circles around his ankles. “We’re practically family.”
She smiled grimly as she collected their empty mugs and headed for the kitchen. “It’s ironic, don’t you think, that after all these years you’d be the one I’d end up dragging into this thing with Iris? I know you think I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. It certainly feels like I have.”
“You haven’t lost your mind,” he assured her as he gathered the remaining utensils from the table and dropped them into the sink. “You’re human. And much stronger than you think. Maybe the next time you feel like beating yourself up you should remember that. Now,” he said, grabbing the dish towel, “whose turn is it to dry?”
Neither spoke as they worked, Christy-Lynn wielding the sponge, Wade the towel, and yet there was a strange comfort in the rhythm, a kind of domestic ballet he found pleasing, the accidental brush of hips, the touch of wet fingers. Not a sensual connection—not exactly—but intimate somehow. It was about a simple moment shared, the comfort of another person standing beside him. It made him realize just how isolated his life had become over the last year. Safe but empty. But wasn’t that what he’d been looking for when he came running back to Sweetwater? Now, suddenly, he wasn’t so sure.
When they finished, she walked him to the door and out onto the porch. The rain was coming down hard now, billowing in ragged sheets across the yard. The ride home was going to be tricky, but first he had to get himself off the porch, and suddenly his legs didn’t want to move.
“So . . . thanks for dinner,” he said awkwardly.
“Thanks for coming. And for listening.”
“What are friends for?”