“I should think so.” He shook his head. “Imagine that. Did they say why they chose to tell you now?”
I’d known we would end up here. We’d been tiptoeing around the bullet this whole conversation; Leland Brett just hadn’t known it. I felt uncomfortable talking about my neck. I don’t like being the center of attention at the best of times, and the thought that everything I confided now would end up printed in the newspaper . . . it was enough to give even a more extroverted person pause. But, hell, we’d come this far. And going public did seem my best chance to connect with people who had once known my family. So I told Leland about the carpal tunnel in my wrist, about getting an MRI, and finally about what the X-ray had shown.
He dropped his fork. “You’re not saying it’s still in there?”
I nodded.
“A bullet? A bullet? From the day your parents were shot?”
I nodded again. “Apparently it’s been in there all this time. Thirty--four years. It never bothered me. There’s no scar.”
“Christ Almighty.” He was scribbling furiously in his notebook. “You’re sure? You have a copy of that X-ray?”
“On my phone. If you need to see it.”
“Christ Almighty,” he repeated. “That’s the craziest story I ever heard. And I’ve heard a few.” He was firing questions at me, trying to reconstruct the exact sequence of how I’d learned about the bullet, when my phone rang.
I squinted down. Will Zartman, calling from his office. He would be trying to firm up the appointment with that neurosurgeon. I sent the call to voice mail; I’d call him later.
I turned back to Leland. “Sorry, where were we?”
“I was saying, I’ve got a few more questions. Why don’t I give you a ride over to the newsroom? We can finish up there, and—”
“Can’t. I’m going over to Cheral Rooney’s after this.”
“Oh, so that phone number worked?”
“Mm-hmm. She called me back this morning, right before I came down to meet you. I don’t think she could get her head around what I was telling her. Poor woman. She sounded even more stunned by all this than you are.”
? ? ?
“MY GOD, YOU’RE so like her. Same eyes. There’s not an ounce of Boone in you.”
Cheral Rooney sat studying me across her living room. She had given me directions to her home, a compact, gray stucco house that backed up to the Chattahoochee River. “I was going to ask you for ID before I let you in. There’s a lot of crazies in the world. But when I saw you walking up the driveway, I realized—no need. Like watching Sadie Rawson herself walk through my front door.”
“You knew them both, then? Both my birth parents?”
“Your birth parents?” She cocked her head. “Yes, I suppose that’s how you would think of them. But look at me, I’ve forgotten my manners. Would you care for coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you sure? I’ve just brewed a pot.”
“I’m not much of a coffee drinker. But I’d love some tea, if it’s not too much trouble.”
She bustled off and returned a few minutes later, carrying a tray. It held a plate of cookies, a mug of steaming coffee, and a tall crystal goblet filled with ice and pale brown liquid. I took a cautious sip. Iced tea. I’d heard this, how Southerners remain loyal to cold tea no matter how chilly the weather outside.
I set down my glass and met her eyes. “The newspaper identified you as a close friend of my birth . . . of my mother’s. How did you know her?”
“We lived in the house next door. Moved there in ’74 and stayed more than twenty years. Until we bought this.” She swept her hand to indicate the room where we were sitting. “Eulalia was a great street for young families. Starter homes, you know. Although too expensive for that now. Did you know a house down on the Lenox end just sold for one point six million dollars? Incredible. We paid fifty-five thousand dollars when we first bought.”
I shook my head. “It’s a lovely street. So you were already living there when the Smiths moved in?”
“We were. We were glad to get a nice young couple next door. The four of us got to be good friends. And then when John and you came along, your mother and I spent nearly every morning together.”
I tried to follow this. “John is—your son?”
She pointed at a framed photograph on a side table beside the sofa. It showed a pudgy man in a golf shirt and khakis. “My oldest. You’re older than him, but only by a couple of months. You and he were great pals as toddlers. You don’t remember him?”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember anything from those years.”
“The two of you used to play together, in a playpen we would set up in the kitchen and fill with balls and toys. Sadie Rawson and I would drink coffee and bake together. That girl could burn things, I tell you. She had a true talent for it. She’d roll out dough and pop it in the oven, get to talking, and forget all about it. Next thing you knew, your kitchen was filled with smoke.” Cheral smiled. “And we went for walks. Endless walks. There wasn’t much to do back then when you stayed home with a baby. None of these play groups and Gymboree classes that young mothers do today.”
I was hanging on her every word. “What was she—like? I mean, was she quiet, or funny, or—”
“Funny, yes. And about as far from quiet as a person can get. She was the life of the party. Boone was the serious, steady one. They played off each other. I guess all couples do.”
“Sounds like I take after my father.”
“Not in the looks department, you don’t. It’s incredible, how you favor her. She was a pretty, pretty girl. Bedroom eyes and shiny, lip-glossy lips. We’d be out pushing baby strollers, just walking around the block in our housedresses, and you’d see the men’s heads snap when they drove past. Sades would just laugh and wave.”