A Sweethaven Summer

by Courtney Walsh

  “Meghan sings?” Jane turned her attention back to the stage.

  “Apparently so,” Lila said. “And her rendition is ‘stunning.’ ”

  Silence fell over the rowdy crowd. The mayor backed away from the microphone stand and motioned for Meghan to take center stage.

  “She doesn’t even look nervous,” Lila said.

  Seconds later, Meg’s strong, raspy voice rang out through the Square. Like a country Pat Benatar, her magical voice flowed over the audience. No one spoke. Even the small children stopped chattering as they all listened to Meghan Barber, Sweethaven’s newest sensation. She saw a man look at his wife, eyebrows raised, and mouth, “Wow.”

  When she finished, Meghan stepped back from the microphone and opened her eyes. A few long seconds passed and finally, as if on cue, the crowd erupted into cheers and shouts and applause.

  Lila shoved her jealous feelings down deep and forced a smile. She’d had more practice than anyone in the art of the pasted smile. Afterwards, Meghan maneuvered through the crowd in their direction, stopping every few steps to accept more congratulations.

  “Meghan!” Suzanne shouted. “You’re amazing!” She threw her arms around her, and Meghan hugged her back, letting out an excited sigh.

  “Why didn’t you tell us you could sing like that?” Jane gushed.

  “It wasn’t my idea. My choir director recommended me to the mayor. He called when I wasn’t home so my mom told him I’d sing. I think I sort of loved it.” Meg covered her face with her hands and squealed.

  “Maybe you’ll be a famous singer someday,” Jane said.

  Lila shifted and looked away.

  “Did you guys take a picture?”

  The three of them exchanged horrified glances. They’d forgotten.

  “We were so stunned. You should’ve warned us you were going to be onstage,” Lila said.

  “Let’s take one now—of all four of you.” Mrs. Barber came up behind them. “Hop up on the stage.”

  Jane, Suzanne, and Meghan ran up the stairs to the top of the gazebo, giddy like children. Lila followed behind. Sometimes her friends could be so juvenile.

  Meghan’s mom snapped one—two—three shots. “Just in case one of y’all closed her pretty eyes.”

  After the photos, they found a spot under an old oak tree at the center of the square where Mark Davis, Tommy Olson, Nick Rhodes, and Gunther Blackwell waited for them.

  “We’ve got corn dogs for everyone.” Mark handed them out to the girls.

  “Well, aren’t you sweet?” Lila said, taking hers.

  “I try.” He grinned.

  Suzanne asked a passerby to take a picture of their entire group.

  “Don’t show that to anyone,” Lila said. “My mom will kill me if she finds out I ate a corn dog.” A delightful surge of rebellion rippled up Lila’s spine.

  “What’s she gonna say when I take your picture with a huge funnel cake?” Suzanne laughed. “Let’s go get them now. Come on, Lila.”

  Lila glanced up from her spot on the blanket. “Me? Why? Take Jane.”

  “Come on,” Suzanne insisted. “Live dangerously.”

  As the two of them headed for the portable funnel cake trailer, Suzanne said, “I think Mark Davis likes you.”

  “What? No he doesn’t.” Lila pretended she hadn’t noticed—even enjoyed—the extra attention from Mark, the son of a doctor and a lawyer who lived in Milwaukee.

  “Lila, don’t play stupid. I’m telling you to turn it down a notch. Jane really likes him.” Suzanne stopped her now. They stood yards from the trailer, and the smell of the doughy fried cakes wafted across the Square.

  “Jane and Mark are just friends. Besides, I can’t think of anyone I’m less interested in.”

  Suzanne stiffened as something behind Lila caught her attention. She grabbed Lila’s arm and dragged her toward the funnel cakes. “Let’s go.”

  “What in the world has gotten into you, Suzanne?” Lila glanced to her right and felt the blood drain from her face. There, on a park bench in the center of town for everyone in Sweethaven to see, sat Lila’s father, his arm draped around a younger woman wearing a sun dress and sandals.

  “Daddy?” Lila noted the horror in her own voice.

  He scooted away from the woman and cleared his throat. “Hi, darlin’,” he said. “Didn’t think I’d see you out here.”

  Obviously.

  “What are you doing?” Tears burned her eyes but she blinked them back.

  “I’m just having a little chat with my friend Sharon.” Daddy stood.

  “Where’s Mama? Does she know you’re having a chat with your friend Sharon?”

  “Lila, let’s not make a scene.” Daddy spoke slowly, his Southern drawl more pronounced than usual. “Remember who you are. We can discuss this at length if you want to, but let’s wait until we get home.”

  Lila blinked hard, trying to hold back the tears. “Daddy, everyone in town is out in the Square this afternoon. Everyone will be talking about us whether I make a scene or not.”

  Daddy took a few steps closer and closed the gap between them. “Listen to me, young lady, you are the daughter and I am the parent. I expect you to treat me with respect.”

  “I would if you deserved it,” Lila spat.

  The hot stinging of his palm across her cheek shocked her. She grabbed her face and gasped to catch her breath. Daddy’s eyes went black. Then, slowly, his forehead loosened as realization set in. “Hon, I am so sorry…” His voice trailed off.

  A small crowd had gathered, had seen her father strike her. Her face throbbed with pain and burned with embarrassment. She swallowed and lifted her chin, willing away the tears that threatened to fall. In the sea of faces staring open-mouthed and whispering, one came into sharp focus. Suzanne. Her eyes, calm and reassuring, reached out to her. Two steps toward her friend and Suzanne took her hand in a firm grasp and led her away.

  “You hold your head up, Lila,” Suzanne whispered.

  Her cheek burned but her pride hurt even more.

  Suzanne put an arm around her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Lila hesitated. “He’s being a jerk.”

  Suzanne nodded.

  “Probably shouldn’t have mouthed off to him. I said that to make him mad.”

  “I think it worked.” Suzanne stared at her for a long moment and then the two of them burst out laughing.

  “Don’t tell the others, okay?” Lila looked away.

  Suzanne crossed her fingers over her heart in an X, kissed them, and held them up at her side. “I promise.”

  Now, sitting in the lake house, Lila could still see the photos Adele had snapped that day. All three showed four beautiful girls, perfectly framed by the decorated gazebo. Mama had told her those girls weren’t good enough for her. She’d said they were fine summer friends but that Adlers didn’t associate with just anybody. Part of Lila had believed her. It had kept her from ever getting too close.

  The clouds passed over the moon, casting a bright light on her face, forcing her eyes open. She’d learned so much that summer. Suzanne had shown her what it meant to be a true friend—by being one to her. She’d never breathed a word to anyone about Daddy. Lila had let Mama convince her that high society and things were more important than her friends, but she knew now that Mama was wrong.

  She sat up, pulled the blanket tighter.

  The truth threatened to reveal itself. The truth she’d avoided and pretended not to know.

  She wasn’t too good for her friends—her friends were too good for her.

  EIGHTEEN

  Campbell

  The next morning, after a hot shower and a bagel, Campbell sat in Adele’s kitchen and sent Tilly a text. Still in Michigan. Calling the lawyer now. I’ll be in touch.

  She rifled around in her purse until she found Mom’s address book. She’d had it with her at the hospital in case she needed to get in touch with anyone not in her own contact list. She opened the book and flipped
to the H section.

  Henry Tillman.

  Mom insisted on alphabetizing by first name instead of last. “When I think of you, I don’t think ‘Carter,’ ” she’d said. “I think ‘Campbell.’ ”

  “Bad example since either way you slice it, I’m filed under C.”

  Mom frowned. “Stop being a smarty-pants.”

  Campbell dialed the number on the page.

  “Henry Tillman’s office,” a woman answered.

  “May I speak with Mr. Tillman, please?”

  Would Henry Tillman even know who she was? Elevator music played on the line. She clicked her thumb on the kitchen table. Finally, the music stopped and she heard rattling on the other end as if he’d dropped the phone after picking it up.

  Campbell held the phone away from her ear until she heard him.

  “This is Henry Tillman,” said a deep voice. She’d only met him once, but she had a clear picture of her mother’s lawyer. Short. Stocky. Bushy black moustache over a tight upper lip.

  “Yes, Mr. Tillman. I’m not sure if you remember me. My mother is—was—Suzanne Carter.”

  “Of course. I was sorry to hear about your mom. She was always such a delight.”

  “Thank you.” Campbell swallowed. How did she ask her questions without sounding hopelessly ignorant?

  “Will you be stopping by the office today?”

  “No, sir. That’s why I’m calling. I’m actually out of town for a few days, but I wanted to talk to you about my mother’s home.”

  “What about it exactly?”

  “I don’t want to sell it.” Saying the words out loud sent her pulse racing. What was she saying? He would think she was crazy. How could someone with her income even consider keeping that house?

  “No, I wouldn’t either if I were you. It’s a nice little place for a single girl like yourself.”

  She chewed the inside of her cheek. “How do I go about paying for it? Do I need to do something legal to get it turned over to me? I’ve never had a mortgage.” Campbell felt her face flush with embarrassment.

  “Didn’t your mom talk to you about this before she passed away?” Mr. Tillman sounded confused.

  “No, she didn’t. I’m finding there were quite a few conversations we should have had.”

  “Hon, the house is already yours.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Your mom owned the house free and clear, and she willed it to you. There’s also a substantial bank account.”

  “My mom was a teacher, Mr. Tillman. We pretty much lived paycheck to paycheck.”

  “She didn’t tell you about your benefactor?”

  “My what?” Campbell chewed on her thumbnail.

  “A benefactor is a person who supports someone else, financially or otherwise—”

  “No, I know what a benefactor is, I just don’t understand how I could possibly have one. Who was it?”

  “She never told me. Just that she felt like the money should be yours, so she stashed it all away in an account for you. Listen, this is good news, Campbell. You don’t have to worry about a house or money. You should be very happy. Let me know if I can do anything else for you, hon.”

  Hon. She let the fatherly endearment settle on her ears. He was not the kind of father she usually imagined, but a father of any kind was better than no father at all.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tillman.” She hung up and called Information for the number to the bank. Once she was connected, she waited for the banker to locate the mystery account.

  How had her mother managed to keep this from her all these years? She’d struggled to provide for the two of them when she had a stockpile of money at her disposal. Why?

  And who was this mysterious benefactor?

  Her mind flipped through a mental rolodex of friends and family, but no rich uncle or wealthy guardian came to mind.

  The only person that kept popping into her head was the one person who didn’t have the right to give her a thing. The man who’d never wanted her and made that fact known to her mother—so much so that she ran away and never returned, never breathed a word of her hidden pain to anyone.

  She didn’t want or need her grandfather’s handouts, and if she stayed in Sweethaven long enough, maybe she’d work up the courage to tell him so.

  When the banker finally returned to the line, she told Campbell there was a branch in Harbortown. It would be better for her to visit in person.

  Campbell thanked her, grabbed her bag, and headed to the car. After she punched the name of the bank into the GPS, she started off for Harbortown.

  She drove for half an hour and located the bank as she pulled into town. After showing the banker her ID, she was given a printout of her account records. Her eyes widened as she looked at the number on the page.

  “Are you sure this is right?”

  “Yes. Would you like to make a withdrawal?” The banker stared at her.

  Campbell blinked, unable to pull her attention from the amount of money they said belonged to her. She withdrew one hundred dollars and stashed it in her wallet.

  Dazed, she walked back to the car, her wallet with the crisp hundred-dollar bill jabbing her like the pea underneath a dozen mattresses. Mom had had all this money, and she’d never spent a dime. It didn’t make sense.

  Campbell started the car and was driving through the parking lot when a sign for Harbortown Central Community College caught her eye. Jane had said her mom had taken an art class there. It had been the only clue Lila and Jane could come up with. Maybe they kept records. Maybe someone there could shed some light on her father’s identity.

  Before she could think twice, Campbell made a quick turn and drove down the block, parked her car, and found the office at the college. A wave of doubt crashed over her. What was she doing? Would she be okay with what she uncovered—if there was anything to uncover at all? Though every fiber of her being told her she wasn’t prepared, and as images of her grandfather standing on his porch bombarded her, she methodically placed one foot in front of the other, choosing to keep walking forward.

  Inside, a woman behind the desk looked up. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a 1986 summer art class list,” Campbell said.

  “Oh.” The woman started clicking the computer mouse. “Do you know the teacher?”

  Campbell shook her head. She didn’t even know if she had the right school.

  “Well, there was an art class that summer, but…” She continued clicking the keys on the keyboard while Campbell’s stomach turned somersaults. “That’s what I was afraid of. No class list. Summer classes like that one are considered elective. They’re often attended by people in the community, and, well, we just aren’t the Ivy League out here.”

  “So there’s no record at all of my mother being in that class?”

  “ ’Fraid not. But you could talk to the teacher, Mr. Hanes. He still teaches here.” She jotted down the teacher’s information on a sticky note and handed it to Campbell. “If you hurry, you might catch him. He’s in the theatre building on the second floor.”

  Campbell thanked her and hurried out onto the sidewalk, spotted the theatre, and went inside. The smell of sawdust filled the space, and she realized she was backstage.

  A college kid dressed in black painted a set piece. He glanced up. “You look lost.”

  “Looking for Mr. Hanes.”

  “The art guy? He’s upstairs.” The kid showed her to the elevator. As the doors closed, Campbell let out a heavy sigh. What was she doing? This was crazy.

  But it could lead to the answer she needed.

  What if her mom hadn’t told anyone her father’s identity because he was older, like a teacher? What if it was Mr. Hanes?

  The elevator doors popped open. The walls had been decorated with student artwork, and Campbell imagined her mother, only seventeen, coming here to take her first college art class. She must’ve been so excited to study something she loved so much. She wiped her wet palms on her j
eans and found Mr. Hanes’s room, the door partially open. The room was empty, but the light was on.

  “Hello?” She looked around but saw no one.

  She walked down the hallway, peeking in other classrooms, but the floor was dark. Apparently everyone was out to lunch.

  Campbell pushed the elevator button and waited.

  “You looking for someone?” A man’s voice echoed down the hallway. She turned and saw a tall, stout man with white hair and a white beard standing outside of Mr. Hanes’s room.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Hanes,” she said.

  “You found him.” He held his arms out at his sides and grinned. “What can I do ya for?”

  The elevator doors opened. Her last chance to escape.

  Campbell stared at the doors, her heart racing, then turned and walked toward Mr. Hanes. “I just had a couple of questions.”

  NINETEEN

  Campbell

  Mr. Hanes ushered Campbell into the classroom. The man, who bore a striking resemblance to Santa Claus, waited for her questions. What if this man was her father? No telling how charming and handsome he’d been twenty-five years ago.

  “Sir, I wanted to talk to you about a student of yours. Her name was Suzanne Carter, and she took a summer class with you when she was seventeen.”

  He frowned. “I have a lot of students, Miss…what’d you say your name was?”

  “Campbell Carter.”

  “So, this girl—she’s your mom?”

  Campbell nodded. “I was wondering if you might remember her.” Campbell opened her purse and pulled out a scrapbook page. She pointed to her mom’s photo. “That’s her.”

  He studied the picture, but no sign of recognition crossed his face. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember her. If I only had her one summer, that would’ve been a six-week class. Not much time to get to know my students.”

  Campbell took the page from him. “You’re sure?”

  “I am. Is she missing?”

  “No. I was actually hoping you might know if she was dating any of the other students or…”

  “Or?” His brow furrowed.

  “If maybe you might’ve had some kind of…romance with her?” Had she really just asked that?