The sun was up, a bright yellow disc crayoned into a bold stripe of blue sky and Livie was standing at the kitchen sink eating a bowl of cereal when she heard Charlie’s truck rattle into the driveway, then the scrape of his boot heels on the back porch.
“Livie, gal, you decent?” He always checked even though he knew from countless other mornings that she was.
“I am,” Livie answered.
“It’s nice out this morning. Good and dry.” Charlie found a mug, poured his coffee. “At least the weather’s cooperating.”
“Dexter’s already called and left a message.”
“He say what he wanted?”
“No, and I haven’t called him back. It’ll be some alteration, widen this, don’t plant that.” Livie dropped her spoon into her cereal bowl. She encountered Charlie’s glance, that hovering question. Scooted her eyes past him. But no, she couldn’t let it go on. “Look,” she blurted the word, “I know you aren’t happy about leaving me at Bo Jangles the other night.”
Charlie shot her a glance from under his brow. “You got home okay, that’s the important thing. I guess Joe brought you.”
She looked at the toes of her sneakers. Joe. His last name eluded her if he’d even told her what it was. What she did remember, vividly, mortifyingly, was waking up on Saturday morning with a huge headache to find herself naked in Joe’s bed. She’d left while he was in the shower, called a cab from the doughnut shop in a nearby strip center, then prayed all the way home Charlie wouldn’t catch her, that she wouldn’t be forced to explain. She was awfully afraid she would have lied, then she’d have hated herself even more.
“I just haven’t ever known you to drink so much,” he said.
“I don’t usually.” I don’t know what got into me. Livie could have said that, too ...except she did know. It happened sometimes, but not in a long while. She set her spoon on the other side of her bowl.
Charlie leaned against the counter, drinking his coffee. Waiting.
Livie felt it. She cleared her throat. “You know Dexter wants to open by Labor Day, but if we have to continually pull out everything and redo it, we’ll be lucky to make it by Christmas.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Charlie said.
A dog barked in the distance and Livie thought of Razz. She hoped so much that he’d lived, that he’d made it through the night. She glanced at Charlie. “I appreciate that you were concerned about me.”
“You’re not mad?”
“No, you were just being considerate.”
Charlie looked relieved.
She put her bowl down in the sink, turned on the tap. “I opened the letter,” she said over the sound of the water.
“Was it from Cotton?”
“Uh-huh. It’s there on the island. You can look at it, if you want to.”
Livie turned off the tap and watched her motley crew of hens through the window, a collection of Barred Rocks, Silver Polish, White Leghorns, and her favorite Araucanas, peck at the feed she’d scattered for them earlier. The wind was out of the east, full of itself, blowing spring across the pasture where the honeysuckle bloomed wild along the fence. The air through the open window was so deliciously scented, it made her knees weak, made her think of Cotton and one long ago afternoon....
“That’s it?” Charlie sounded incredulous and Livie felt somehow gratified. “I’m sorry?”
She turned drying her hands.
Charlie looked at the front of the envelope. “It’s postmarked Seattle. You sure it’s from him?”
She said she wasn’t; she didn’t know why. She said, “I don’t have anything left to compare the handwriting with.” She was remembering Cotton’s love notes. When they were dating, he’d left them for her everywhere, tucked under a flower pot on the doorstep of her Houston apartment, or poked into the pocket of her winter coat. The last note from him had been the postcard Nix had brought her, the one that had read: Tell Livie it’s not her fault. Tell her to forget me. Tell her not to look for me. I’m not worth it.
That had come the first part of May, four days after Cotton disappeared. After they’d had search parties out slogging through the countryside hunting for him. After the police had issued an APB, after they’d posted fliers and appeared on television.
By the following July, when the shock had worn off and her grief had hardened into anger, Livie, who’d been staying with her mother at the time, made a huge fire in the fireplace at her mom’s condo and burnt the card along with everything else Cotton had ever written to her. Her mother had come home from her bi-monthly, day-spa appointment, freshly manicured, pedicured, coiffed, massaged and made up and, without a word, she’d set the air conditioner on sixty. She’d gathered Livie into her arms, unmindful of the heat and its effect on her careful appearance and the dinner date she had later. Unmindful of Livie’s tears soaking the pearl-buttoned front of her silk shirt.
“Well, it seems weird,” Charlie said now.
“I wonder how he found me.”
“Computer. Search engine. Your website, a business listing.”
“What if he shows up here?” Livie thought how she’d used to wish for that more than anything, that Cotton would appear, that he would finally explain. Now the possibility tied her stomach in knots. She’d believed she had forgiven him, too. But looking at his letter only made her feel afraid and confused and furious all over again. He’d made a mockery of her love, her faith in him. How could he presume now that some remote, two-word, unsigned apology would make up for that?
“Have you told Delia?” Charlie asked.
“I haven’t told anyone. Livie hugged herself, rubbing her upper arms.
Charlie came to the sink, dashed the dregs of his cup, ran water into it and set it in the drain. “You don’t owe her, Livie.”
“I know, but she’s his mother. She deserves peace of mind as much as anyone.”
“Maybe he wrote to her too. Maybe he’s home with her right now.”
“She would have called.”
“You think? From what you’ve told me, she doesn’t feel your sense of obligation.”
“She doesn’t let herself feel much of anything these days.”
Charlie clicked his tongue. “That gin is gonna kill her if she doesn’t quit it.”
Livie shifted her glance. She thought how hurt she would be if she were to learn Cotton was home and that Delia hadn’t bothered to pick up the phone. Hurt but not surprised. The surprise was why Livie bothered with Delia. Who was nothing to her, really.
Her almost mother-in-law.
Livie knew people, her family, Charlie, wondered about the connection, but she refused to explain it. She was pretty sure no one would believe her anyway. Sometimes even she had trouble believing that Delia had once trusted her, had once confided matters of such a private and painful nature to Livie that it was impossible not to feel an obligation. Never mind how onerous.
“So, do you want to ride into town with me, see the sheriff?” Charlie asked.
Livie looked at him. “Why would I do that?”
“You said Cotton’s buddy—Nix, isn’t it?—he told you Cotton took off because he’d done something. To me that sounds like it was illegal.”
“What would I say? Writing a letter isn’t exactly breaking the law, right?”
“No, but given the circumstances, who knows what he has in mind.”
“Evidently an apology.”
“It doesn’t bother you, the way he’s going about it? It’s not even signed, for god’s sake.”
It did bother her; it bothered her plenty and Charlie knew it. He’d likely talk to the sheriff whether Livie went along or not, unless she spoke up. But no, she thought. Let him talk to JB if he wanted to. Maybe that’s what needed to happen. On the remote chance that Cotton might show up, maybe the sheriff should talk to him.
“We could check on the dog, too.” Charlie made the offer figuring, rightly, that mentioning Razz would entice Livie.
“I’d like to see about R
azz, but I’m supposed to meet Dexter at Cavanaugh’s to look at rock.” Livie brushed the fine hairs that had loosened from her chignon off her face.
“All right.” Charlie went to the screen door and paused. “But you’ll call if—?”
“Cotton’s not here, Charlie.”
“Just because the postmark says Seattle—”
“Well, even if he were here, he’s not a maniac, at least not last I heard.”
“It’s been six years, Livie. People change.” Charlie closed the screen door and stood looking in at her. “I’m just saying you can’t be too careful.”
o0o
THE LAST INNOCENT HOUR, Excerpt
Chapter One
They reached town. Beth came out of her seat and rode now braced in the stairwell of the Greyhound bus, bent down, clinging to the pole to keep her balance, staring through the window. Seeing the landmarks, the familiar shapes of the shabby, antiquated buildings that verged on Main Street. Some of them were vacant. Nearly all of them had begun their lives as something else. She could name their evolutions. She’d grown up here, and she’d left this town. Tried ever since not to think of why. Maybe in her absence the old buildings had forgotten. But she hadn’t; she didn’t think she ever would.
The bus stopped in the alley beside Hickham’s Hardware and Dry Goods Emporium. A grinning cowboy painted on the side of the brick building waved his huge hand in greeting. His white, ten gallon hat looked a little moth-eaten, and his red, western-style shirt was faded, but the big-lettered words: Howdy, Welcome to Wither Creek, Texas, printed in the cartoon cloud floating near his head, were still legible. When she’d lived here, Beth had thought the image was countrified and dumb. Now the sight of it was a comfort, a distraction from the worry that pressed heavily on her chest.
The bus doors opened, and Maizie was there, framed in their expanse, her presence as big and solid and reassuring as Beth’s memory of her. Their eyes locked. Beth took a step down, and then froze, suddenly shot through with misgiving. What did Maizie see? What could she be thinking? Suppose she was angry at the way Beth had left with scarcely a glance back or a word of warning?
But, no. Maizie came toward her, open-armed and murmuring, “Honey, I cain’t believe it’s you. Home at last.”
And that was all the invitation Beth needed. She was a child again, and powerless to help it, and flinging herself into Maizie’s embrace, she snuggled there. Home. The word floated in her mind. Just the way Maizie said it flooded Beth with memories. Home was the wind in the pines, deep porch, and all her dolls lined up on the swing. Home was pails full of handpicked, ripe, juicy dewberries and wild Mustang grapes, and the smell of summer sun on Maizie’s dark brown skin.
Huddled against her ample bosom, washed in a near-boneless wave of relief, Beth told herself she’d been right to come back. The farm would provide what they needed, a roof over their heads, time to think. They’d be safe here.
Maizie held her close a moment longer, then setting her to one side, said, “This must be Miss Christabelle.” She bent toward the child who stood half-concealed behind Beth and laid her fingers carefully against Chrissie's cheek. That was Maizie's way. She’d always said children were like animals, frightened by sudden moves. She ought to know, Beth thought. She’d raised her share, including Beth and Beth’s own mama.
Chrissie grew still under Maizie’s touch. She was almost four, but they’d moved around a lot, and Beth knew her response to strangers could be unpredictable. As often as not, she’d turn and cling to Beth, pressing her face into her mother’s hip. But Maizie worked her customary magic. Here came a dimpled smile, so like Charlie’s, her daddy’s, smile, and now, Chrissy raised her hand to touch Maizie's brown fingers with her own.
Maizie chuckled. She was still looking at Chrissie when she addressed Beth. “Honey, ‘cept for that head full of curly hair an’ the fact that she’s got your great-grandmama’s name, this child don't take after you a'tall. Jus’ look at those green eyes.” She glanced up at Charlie who had joined them. “Sure not much Clayton blood showin’ in this one. She's her daddy's girl with those eyes.” Rising, she offered him her hand.
“Beth’s told me a lot about you,” he said, but his greeting lacked his customary charm. He seemed stiff, out of sorts. But perhaps it was simply that he was worn out from the hours of traveling.
“Well, I’m pleased to finally meet you. Beth has tol’ me some about you and Miss Chrissie, but I was beginning to think she was never going to bring her family home.”
“If Beth has been talking about me, I guess there's no use me trying to make a good impression.”
It was intended to be a joke, but when Charlie glanced at her, Beth saw his eyes were full of speculation, as if maybe he suspected her of complaining to Maizie about him and about the way they'd been living. She hadn’t, but she could have. She could have blamed him for the fact that they were here, but she hadn’t done that either.
Saying he’d get the luggage, Charlie left Beth with Mazie. Chrissie trailed in his wake.
Mazie said, “She's tired, bless her heart. It was a long trip, I guess.”
“Yes, long,” Beth repeated. She kept her eye on her husband and small daughter, and when they were out of earshot, she brought her glance back to Maizie’s. “Is he gone?” she asked. “Jason? Mama told me he was, otherwise you know I wouldn't have come.”
Maizie didn’t answer.
Beth’s heartbeat slowed, thickened. “Mama lied?”
“She needs your help, honey.”
“No, no, I can’t do this.” Beth put her fingertips to her temples.
“Charlie don’t know what happened, does he?”
Beth shook her head as the scope of her error froze in her mind. Mama hardly ever told the truth; why had Beth believed her this time? But it wasn’t as if she could turn back. She and Charlie had spent the last of their money on the bus trip from Miami.
“You got to tell him, honey.”
Beth looked at her shoes, a pair of worn leather loafers covered in dust. “I can’t. Not now. I could never explain why I kept it from him.” Even as she spoke, she wondered how she could have been so foolish.
“He’s bound to find out.” Maizie echoed Beth’s frightened thought, but then she smiled and said, “Never you mind, we’ll sort it out,” and Beth was reassured.
She started chattering about how that’s why she’d come, because she knew Maizie would help her. Maizie could fix anything. But something was happening to Maizie’s face. The color just drained from her broad cheeks leaving them ashen. Her eyes were wide and mostly white. She raised a hand to her throat.
“Maizie?” Beth said. “What is it?” Anxiety tightened its grip on her stomach. She put a hand on Maizie’s shoulder, while the other flitted from Maizie's cheek to her brow. The old woman's chest heaved uncertainly. “Is it your heart again? Maizie?”
She bent slightly at the waist and took several moments to answer. “I'm fine, child. Jus’ give me a minute.” The words wheezed on a thin current of air.
“We need to get you to the hospital.” Beth looked around for Charlie.
“No, no. C’mon now. It's your mama we got to be worrying about.” Maizie straightened. She opened the big pocketbook she carried, pulled out a freshly-ironed, cotton hankie and mopped her face. “That Tinker's doing something, up to no good. He’s after her to give him the farm.”
“What? Well, even stoned out of her mind, Mama wouldn't consider that. Would she?”
Maizie tucked her hankie back into her purse without answering.
“Why can't she just pack up his stuff and put him out? When I called her the other night, she said she’d filed for divorce; she said she’d even gotten a restraining order to keep him off the property.”
“There's some things she'll have to tell you herself. It ain't my place, but I know he's been sayin' she can't handle her biz’ness on account of her drinkin', and she been tellin’ me she thinks she already done signed something 'bout th
e farm. But you know how it is, honey. That liquor really gets her head fuzzed up.”
“Yes, but when I talked to her, she was sober. It was after six at night, and Mama was sober.”
“That's right, honey, she was sober. And she has been now for near two days waiting for you and Mr. Charlie and that child a yours.”
“Forty-eight whole hours.” Beth’s glance rose up over the cowboy’s grinning image, above his ten-gallon hat. Farther, until it topped the roof-line of the building. The clouds had thickened since the bus had rolled into town. The air felt stagnant and slabby as old pond water.
“She needs you, honey, for more reasons than you know. And from the look of you, you need her too.” Maizie nodded toward Charlie, who was coming toward them, now, with Chrissie hustling alongside him. Beth had packed everything they owned into the suitcase he carried in one hand and into either of the two boxes he had tucked, one under each arm.
“Don't ’pear to me you come back with much more baggage than what you left with five years ago. An’ there’s three of you now. Or can we expect a movin' van at the farm?”
Beth ducked her chin.
“I didn’t think so.” Maizie brushed Beth's hair from her cheek. “You look plumb wore out, child, full of shadows.”
“Don’t be nice to me, Maizie, or I’ll cry.”
She took Beth's hand, pulling her against her side. “Lean on me, honey,” she murmured. “Just you lean on me.”
Chapter Two
Maizie’s car, a vintage Buick, was parked at the end of the alley. Charlie came with the baggage, and she opened the trunk.
He put their things inside and closed it, letting his hands rest a moment on the smooth metal curve of the lid. “This car is really something,” he said. “A real classic.”
Beth was probably the only one who caught the edge of irritation in his voice. He wanted her glance, but she studied the car, too, as if she’d never seen it before.
Maizie patted the fender, fondly. “Beth's granddaddy gave her to me back when I come to work for the fam’ly. In nineteen-forty-seven.”
The Volunteer Page 32
