“I’ll mail the check today,” she says instead. “It should be there in a few days.”
“Thank you, baby.” It’s little more than a whisper, thready and desperate. “Thank you so much.” And then, abruptly, the line is dead.
Christy-Lynn stares at the phone, and for a moment, the old guilt rears its head. Would things have gone differently for Charlene Parker if her daughter hadn’t deserted her? It’s hard to imagine. If those terrible years had taught her anything, it was that time didn’t change women like her mother. It merely hastened their decline. Still, the question lingered. Could she have made a difference?
She drops the phone into its cradle and goes to her purse to find her checkbook. Her hand shakes as she makes it out—$3,000. It’s more than her mother asked for, but guilt has a way of making people generous.
She drops the checkbook back in her purse. It’s her personal checkbook, of course. There’s no reason for Stephen to know about the call. As far as he knows, her mother is dead—and until a few moments ago she had assumed the same.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Sweetwater, Virginia
July 19, 2017
Christy-Lynn propped her feet up on an unopened carton of books, eyeing the stack of papers awaiting her attention. There were invoices to pay, next week’s schedule to finish, and the back-to-school sale to plan, but at the moment, she was too distracted to tackle any of it.
She had green-lighted the trust paperwork with Peter Hagan six days ago. At the time, he had promised they would be ready in a week, two at the most. Now he was saying it was looking more like three—something about needing more time to make sure the necessary safeguards against abuse were in place. She appreciated his diligence on her behalf, but in the meantime, her life seemed to have slipped into a kind of limbo, her thoughts consumed with the logistics of the thing. She never imagined giving money away could be so complicated.
And there was still Rhetta to convince. Despite their complicated and inexplicable ties, they were little more than strangers. And here she was, the well-heeled widow preparing to swoop in like some kind of lady bountiful. Would Rhetta think the offer presumptuous? See it as meddling in something that was none of her business? Both were not only possible but likely.
She had planned to broach the subject with the paperwork in front of her, hoping that laying it all out in black and white would help put Rhetta at ease. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to wait three weeks. She’d seen firsthand how stubborn the woman could be when it came to accepting help. Perhaps it would be wise to reach out now and get her used to the idea.
Christy-Lynn reached for her cell, pulled up Rhetta’s new number, and hit “Send.” Rhetta’s voice came wheezing over the line after three rings.
“Hello?”
She sounded tired and almost startled, as if she was surprised the phone had rung at all, which Christy-Lynn guessed it rarely did. “Rhetta, it’s Christy-Lynn. Are you all right? You don’t sound well.”
“Just . . . winded is all. Is anything wrong?”
“No. Nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering if you were going to be home this weekend. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
The television was on in the background, a talk show with lots of hooting and applause. Rhetta raised her voice over the din. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I just have something . . . I have an idea I’d like to talk to you about, a way I think we can both help Iris, but I’d like to do it in person if possible. I could come on Saturday.”
“Well, I’ve got nowhere to go, so that would be fine, but I hate for you to drive all that way.”
“I don’t mind really. It’s a little complicated, and I think it would be better if we talked about it face-to-face. Would that be all right?”
“Well, yes. I guess so.” She sounded confused, perhaps even leery.
“It’s a good thing, Rhetta. I promise. I’ll see you on Saturday.”
Christy-Lynn was tossing her phone back into her purse, pleased to have at least gotten the ball rolling, when she realized she had made plans to go out of town without a thought to store coverage. She was going to have to ask Tamara for a favor.
Tamara was behind the café counter brewing an espresso when Christy-Lynn stepped out of the back room. She looked up, smiling sunnily across the pickup counter. “What’s up, boss?”
“I need a favor.”
“One of my spectacular triple shot lattes?”
“No. I don’t need coffee. I’m in a jam. I have to go out of town Saturday, and I was hoping you could close with Aileen. I hate to spring it on you last minute, but it’s important.”
Tamara disappeared briefly to deliver her espresso then quickly reappeared. “No worries. Do what you have to do. Wait. Don’t go. You skipped lunch. At least let me make you a latte.”
“Thank you. You’re a lifesaver. But only a single shot in the latte.”
She was tidying napkin stacks and coffee stirrers, waiting for Tamara to finish brewing her latte, when she spotted Wade standing in the order line. It was the first time she’d seen him since the fireworks in the boat. God, that sounded bad. Maybe she’d just wait in the back room.
“Christy-Lynn.”
Too late.
“Oh, hey!” Christy-Lynn pasted on a smile, scrambling for something to say. “I didn’t see you there. Sorry. It’s been a crazy day—well, a crazy couple of weeks actually.” She paused to throw in a laugh. It came out sounding forced and slightly deranged. “I’m still trying to get the book club organized and line up events for the fall. I feel like all I do is work. It’s crazy, crazy.”
Wade nodded knowingly. “I know what you mean. I’ve been crazy busy myself. I just popped in to grab coffee, and then I’m on my way to Harmon’s for some two-by-fours. I’ve been working on the deck, replacing some rotted wood. Then I’ll have to restain it all. Hopefully the weather holds.”
Christy-Lynn was still nodding when Wade’s words ran out. There was a gaping moment of quiet, the awkward abyss that descends when two people run out of small talk. So much for it not getting weird.
“Here ya go, boss,” Tamara said mischievously as she pushed an oversize mug across the counter. “Steamy and hot . . . just the way you like it.”
Christy-Lynn shot Tamara her best scary boss face, but Tamara wasn’t finished making mischief. Smiling sweetly, she set a mug of freshly brewed Sumatra on the counter.
“And here’s your coffee, Wade. One sugar already in.”
“I believe Wade wanted his coffee to go, Tamara,” Christy-Lynn pointed out tightly, though she was sure Tamara already knew this.
Wade stepped in, grabbing the mug before Tamara could retrieve it. “No, it’s okay. I can hang out a minute if you’re going to sit.”
Christy-Lynn had no choice but to follow Wade to his usual table. To make an excuse and slink away wouldn’t just be rude; it would be glaringly transparent. She just hoped he didn’t ask about the manuscript. She didn’t want to tell him she hadn’t even picked it up—or to lie about why.
“So . . . you’re going out of town,” he said as soon as they were seated. “I couldn’t help overhearing you talking to Tamara. Anywhere fun?”
Christy-Lynn narrowed her gaze at him, certain he knew exactly where she was going and why. “I have an appointment to see Rhetta. The paperwork isn’t finalized yet, but I thought I’d drive over on Saturday and see what she thinks.”
Wade lowered his mug, brows raised. “Sounds like you’re pretty optimistic if the lawyer’s already drawing up the papers. Have you considered that there could be some pushback from the family?”
“It’s Rhetta I’m worried about convincing, not the family. And why should they push back? I’m giving money away, not asking for it.”
“People are funny when it comes to money. Not everyone’s keen on taking a handout.”
“Except that’s not what this is. The money already belongs to Iris. I’m just making it legal.”