by Jodi Thomas
“Whatever you want. However you want it.” He nodded to the waitress jotting down the order. “And I’ll have coffee.”
11
Sunday morning Jillian drove north on Interstate 35 toward Oklahoma City. She’d made a list of everything she needed to do, and as always, she planned to do it all in exact order.
By the time she crossed the Red River, she’d calculated in her mind how long it would be before she was heading back to Laurel Springs. Two hours tops.
Papa’s rule: Never stay in town any longer than you need to.
Just like he had done when he’d passed through the capital of Oklahoma a dozen times when she was growing up. He’d stop at three places, each time pulling out an old briefcase he’d picked up in a yard sale somewhere. He’d also insisted she walk beside him. Her bag might now be a backpack, but the routine was the same.
“Why Oklahoma?” she once asked him.
He’d stopped just outside the bank, knelt low, and said simply, “Because it’s the center of the world, baby doll.”
She’d asked if her mother was from what Oklahomans call “The City,” and he’d said no. Apparently her mother walked into Mercy Hospital in labor and alone. She delivered Jillian, filled out parts of the birth certificate, then left the next morning with no address on file. No way for anyone to find her. Her father told her the facts once, ending the story with, “Your mother just vanished after she made one midnight call to me.”
Once, when Jefferson James was far from sober, he’d told Jillian that he’d driven most of the night to get to the hospital before dawn so he could pick her mother up, but when he’d gotten there, she’d already disappeared. “Since my name was on the birth certificate, I got to take you home as the consolation prize.”
Jillian was too young to understand when he’d made the confession, but she remembered his words. Years later, after he’d vanished, when she was a freshman in college, she’d drawn a circle around Oklahoma City, mapping out in all directions how far he could have driven in one night.
She might not know where her mother lived, but she had a clue as to where her father had been living when she was born.
Laurel Springs, Texas, was inside that circle. The zip code was in his first ledger book. Back then he’d logged the days he stayed in one place, but he’d identified the towns only by zip code.
Her father had tossed the tiny books out when he’d found them in the glove compartment. He’d laughed and said, “I have no idea why I kept these old things. No one, including me, cares where I’ve been.”
She’d collected them from the trash and slid them under the lining in her suitcase. She’d only been eight then, but she’d known the little books were part of the past, her past.
A little after noon, Oklahoma City welcomed her with a line of hotels and fast-food restaurants. Even in the state capital, there was a Sunday-morning laziness about the flow of traffic.
Finding a branch of her bank was no problem. She dropped her deposit in the safe-drop box and drove on.
Next stop, Bethany Post Office. The small town seemed to have been gobbled up by Oklahoma City. All the mail in her box was junk mail addressed to occupant except a forwarded notice to renew her California driver’s license. The years when she didn’t make it back to check this mailbox, she’d have the contents forwarded, not to where she was living, but to another box.
When she walked out of the post office, the wind had grown colder. One more stop, then she’d be heading back south. To Texas. To her job at the quilt shop. To Connor.
The Metropolitan Library on Park Avenue sounded like it should be in New York City, not Oklahoma City.
Pulling into the parking lot, Jillian turned off the car and waited. Twenty-three minutes before the doors opened. She didn’t want to look too anxious or the librarians might watch her. She’d wait awhile, then slip in with a crowd.
Leaning back in the warm car, she closed her eyes and remembered what had happened, or almost happened, with Connor last night. She’d had a few short affairs, usually with coworkers. Always careful not to get too involved. She never wanted to leave a broken heart behind.
But if she wasn’t careful she’d be taking that broken heart with her when she left Laurel Springs. Connor would be a hard man to walk away from. He seemed to care about everyone but himself.
“Six minutes,” she whispered, smiling. That was all they’d wanted to steal from time and they hadn’t even gotten that.
She thought about what might have happened if she’d had more time with Connor in the shadowy parlor. An hour maybe. A night.
When someone walked by her window, Jillian jumped and called herself nuts for daydreaming about something that would never happen.
She climbed out of the car, ignoring the wind, and walked into the library she’d remembered since she was a kid. As far as she knew her father had never had a library card, but he did drop by and check his stash when she was growing up.
If he’d traveled by here in the past few years. He knew where the hiding place was. He might check on her. If he cared.
Last row, basement shelves.
Jillian pulled a book from the shelf and waited half an hour before making her move. No one else was downstairs and, thanks to the steps, she’d hear them coming if anyone did venture down.
Her father had explained that he’d worked here for several months when she was little and had to have constant care. During that time, he’d cleaned the place after midnight. No one ever checked on him, so he brought her to work.
When she’d started crawling, he’d had to find another job, one that paid more so he could afford childcare while he worked.
But during those nights they were alone in the library, he’d built a hiding place no one would ever find. Beneath a concrete shelf that held a statue of a buffalo too heavy to ever be moved was one small shelf and a box that pulled out, opening like a drawer.
Jillian had learned the exact spot to kneel down and slide her hand into the darkness beneath the thick stone shelf. There on a ledge almost out of her reach, was a box measuring ten by four by two. Just big enough to hold a few documents. Papers she’d need. Her birth certificate her father had finished filling out with lies. Three state driver’s licenses she’d kept renewing. An extra social security card. Several hundred-dollar bills, emergency money. A one-page letter to her father. And one tiny picture of her at about ten. A free school picture her teacher had cut out when Jillian didn’t buy the pack.
She opened the box. The documents were still here. The letter didn’t look like it had been touched.
Jillian added three hundred-dollar bills to the stash. Rainy Day Money her father always called it. He’d made a great income on the oil rigs, but when times were lean, they stopped here several times to collect enough to live on until the next job.
She moved her fingers across the bottom of the box, looking for the one picture of her childhood. Her father had forgotten that pictures were going to be taken that day. Her hair was short and poorly cut. Her shirt was clean, but too small. She hadn’t smiled for the camera.
She moved her fingers around the small box again. Time was running out. She needed to put the box back in its hiding place before someone accidentally saw her.
Her hand spread out across the bottom of the box.
The picture wasn’t there. She held a tight rein on any emotion as she closed the box and put it back in place.
With her head low, she moved slowly out of the library, not taking a deep breath until she reached her car.
Someone had found her stash. Someone had taken the picture.
Nothing but the picture.
Her father had been there. No other explanation fit.
12
Sunnie sat in the windowsill of her father’s office on Main, picking at her black nail polish. Usually she found some reason not to
come watch him work on Sundays. Since he was already here six days a week, making it seven made no sense. But it was his habit, and her father was a man of habits.
He got up at six fifteen every morning. Drank coffee like it was the fuel that ran him. Never forgot anything on his schedule, or hers, or Gram’s or the town’s. He always fell asleep watching the news at ten. When she woke him, he’d swear he was simply listening with his eyes closed, and then Dad would wander off to bed. He might be only thirty-seven, but she had the feeling he’d be doing everything exactly the same when he was eighty.
If Sunnie didn’t know it was impossible, she’d swear her father was a robot.
He claimed Sunday afternoon was the only time he had to work on his books without being interrupted. She’d never thought to ask him how long he’d been writing. It was just something he did. He rarely talked about his work and never offered to let anyone read what he wrote. Which was fine with her. She couldn’t imagine it being interesting.
When she’d been thirteen, just after her mother died, she insisted on coming with him on Sunday afternoons. It was like she was afraid to let him out of her sight. She’d curl up in the window and do her homework or read. Then, when it was almost dark, he’d yell from his office in the back of the big empty room, Time to go!
“Already?” she’d say like she hadn’t been watching the clock for an hour. It occurred to her that when she grew old, she’d turn this place into a nursing home because time passed slower here in Dad’s office than it did anywhere in the world. She might not live forever, but it would feel like it.
Glancing at the huge clock beside the desk he called the mayor’s corner, Sunnie frowned, realizing it would be at least another hour, maybe more, before Dad would be ready to leave.
She could walk home. Only the clouds outside were dark, full of rain. Plus, there was nothing to do back at the house.
Staring out at the empty main street made her sad. She was in the center of town, the prettiest part of Laurel Springs some say, but today it looked barren, deserted, hollow.
Even Gram’s shop across the street was dark, uninviting now. On summer Sundays, the shops would open, but in winter the visitors were at the winery outside of town. Business on Main was so slow even Mamma Bee’s Pastries was closed.
It took her a few seconds to realize someone was standing in front of Gram’s shop staring right at her. He was so still she hadn’t even noticed him.
Derrick.
Sunnie leaned closer, putting her hand on the cold window, making sure. Tall, good-looking, worn leather jacket that looked like it came from a sci-fi movie, killer smile. Yep, it was him.
He straightened. Those blue eyes stared right at her.
Then, with a nod of his head, he turned and walked toward the end of the street where a path led down to the neglected park by a stream. Just before he stepped on the path, he glanced back as if to make sure she saw where he was going.
“I’m off for a walk,” Sunnie yelled toward her father.
He didn’t even look up from his work.
Pulling on her coat, she stepped outside.
Derrick had disappeared somewhere in the tall grass and cypress trees that were scattered along the creek. Reddish-brown leaves still hung on to branches as if refusing to admit that winter had arrived. The leaves were heavy, twisted, droopy, and making that sound only oak leaves seem to make.
Mourner’s cloth draped over the death of summer, she thought, moaning in a throaty rattle. She had a feeling the dead leaves wouldn’t fall until new ones pushed them off the branches.
Pulling her charcoal jacket closed over her black T-shirt and jeans, she decided she must look the same. The comparison bothered her so she ran. Ever since her mother died, she’d felt death stalking her and today it seemed closer than usual.
She couldn’t see Derrick, but she guessed he was waiting. He probably wanted to tell her off someplace where no one would hear.
Maybe they needed to settle things before tomorrow when rumors of their very public fight would spread. If they both agreed to claim they were just kidding around, maybe everyone would buy the story. After all, making a public scene for laughs sounded better then arguing with a guy you really hadn’t gone out with.
Turning her collar up, she walked down to the water. It always amazed her how the town seemed to disappear so quickly, as if stepping back and letting nature have this place.
The settlement of Laurel Springs had started here by the water. A campsite for Apache. A stopover for travelers when the wagon trains came. An early fort for a short time. All started because of the stream that ran year-round.
Almost at the water, she saw Derrick leaning against a pine whose branches started a few feet above his head and offered little shelter. In the dull light, he could have been a man from any time. A buffalo hunter. A soldier. An outlaw.
She walked closer and saw him more clearly. Nope. He wasn’t any of them. He was just the boy she almost dated. Nothing more.
“Hi,” she said as she tiptoed near the winding creek’s edge and stared at the stream, not him.
“Hi.” He was silent for a few minutes, then added, “I went by your house. When you weren’t home, I figured you’d either be at your dad’s office or at the quilt shop.”
“Good guess.” She wanted to ask why he’d come, but she knew he’d get around to telling her eventually.
They listened to the stream splashing over rocks for a while. When raindrops started plopping in the water like tiny bombs, she was tired of waiting. “Did you come to apologize? If so, it’s not necessary.”
He looked up and she saw surprise on his face. “No. I thought I’d give you the chance to. You’re the one who went ballistic on me.”
The possibility of “going ballistic” again seemed an option, but she thought it might be overkill. He wasn’t worth the effort. “Why’d you ask me out this weekend?”
He smiled that sexy smile he had. “I figured I’d give you a chance. Thought we’d have some fun. I don’t usually even talk to sophomores. But, Shorty, you’ve got something. Long legs and hair so light it almost glows. I even like the quirky way you dress. Not to mention your old man is the mayor. I’m thinking that makes you almost royalty in this town.”
Sunnie straightened. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, Derrick.” She caught his grin, then continued, “I’m even sorry I said I’d go out with you. In fact, I’m sorry I even spoke to you that night at the game.” She turned and started back. Three apologies should do it.
“Wait. We’re not finished. It’s not over between you and me. Not by a long shot.”
She kept walking. “Yes, we are over. You’re right. Age does matter. You’re too young for me.”
She barely heard his words above the wind. “You’ll be sorry.”
“I already said that,” she called back. “Weren’t you listening?” It appeared her love affairs were destined to have the stability of tissues.
When she made it up the path to the sidewalk, he was still standing by the creek. Rain had made his hair flat and hanging in his eyes like a bowl cut. He no longer looked irresistible.
Silently she slipped back into her father’s offices and smiled. The place with its overabundance of mahogany bookshelves and mission desks with matching swivel chairs all seemed to welcome her back. If a stranger came in they’d think several people worked here, but it wasn’t that way. All the desks were her father’s. One for the news blog he still called a paper. One for official mayor’s work. One where he handled what he called the Larady accounts. And one where he wrote on Sundays for no reason at all.
“You all right?” Dad asked when she shook the rain off her coat.
She guessed he’d watched her follow Derrick. “Yeah. I count my wild encounters in minutes.”
He shrugged as if he understood. “So do I, Sunshine.”
13
The weekend fog hung over the town as thick as Southern gravy. Jillian walked the few blocks to work on her third Monday in town. The old, run-down homes were becoming familiar in a way that surprised her. She saw the beauty in their unique structures and one-of-a-kind craftsmanship. Each day she looked to see if some detail had changed and was comforted that it hadn’t. Familiar surroundings reassured her weary soul in a way she hadn’t expected.
Maybe it was a sign that she should stop traveling for a while. Only hers was the good life. The free life. No relatives to bother her. No friends to pull her down. No mortgage or things she had to do just because she was a part of a group. She’d noticed a long time ago that the more possessions someone has, the more they have to repair, or clean, or worry about them being stolen.
She was free to live, to explore, to pick her own adventure.
Shoving the wild thoughts aside, she continued on her walk. Some days just walking was all the excitement she needed.
Three doors down from the bed-and-breakfast, a little brown cottage had huge clay pots, each a different color, lining the long porch. Every pot was overflowing with colorful plastic flowers. The cottage reminded her of San Francisco. Only the flowers weren’t real.
They almost looked as if they’d grown there, but the plants were fake. Make-believe pretty. The yard was only dirt with a few weeds scattered around as though to catch trash blowing by.
The scene didn’t make sense. Such detail to the porch. Such neglect of the yard. An ugly frame surrounding a third grader’s colorful painting.
She found herself wondering about the people inside the house. Before, she’d never cared who people were, or why houses looked as they did. Her surroundings were simply markers along her path and she was only passing through. What currently bothered her thoughts: Was she more balanced then, when she didn’t care, or now?
As she turned on Main, the dull, damp grayness of the day seemed to settle, not just over her, but into her, as well, clouding her thoughts as the happenings of the weekend pirouetted around in her mind.
