by Cathy Holton
The surrounding mountains rose around them, dark against the evening sky. Headlights circled the ridge like a string of pearls. Despite her nap, Stella felt exhausted. And yet filled with a curious lightness, too. A hollow sensation in her stomach, an impression of flight, like a balloon bumping along beneath her rib cage. He was right. She knew he was. She thought of Alice’s face as she gave up her secret about Laura. Did her face show the same expression of regret and deliverance? Would she be able to tell Alice the story in its entirety, or only in bits and pieces, holding back out of fear and shame?
“Is there anything you would have liked to say to your mother?” In the glow of the dashboard his face was young and earnest. “Anything I didn’t say?”
She smiled, shook her head. “I think you said it all.”
“No really.” He glanced at her and then back at the road. “Say it to me.”
“Have you been talking to Professor Dillard?”
“Say it, Stella.”
She crossed her arms over her knees. She put her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. “I’d say, you shouldn’t bring a child into the world just to keep you company in your loneliness.”
“Anything else?”
“I’d say a woman shouldn’t be dependent on a man for happiness. Every woman needs her own life, her own dreams.”
“Virginia Woolf couldn’t have said it better,” he said.
She snuggled down in the corner with her head resting against the glass. She knew now why she had told Alice she was an orphan. All her life, she had felt parentless, discarded. Alice had showed her what it was like to have a real mother. A sister. Stella had a sudden desire to confess as Alice had done, to lay her head on Alice’s heart and tell her the truth. To admit to the aching loneliness she had carried all her life.
She would tell Alice when she saw her again on Wednesday. She would tell her everything.
Nineteen
Alice died in her sleep on Tuesday night. Charlotte called Stella while she was getting ready for work on Wednesday morning and told her not to come in.
Stella didn’t go to the funeral. She couldn’t bear the thought of it and she was sure Alice understood. The papers were filled with tributes and accolades; Alice Montclair Whittington had been even wealthier than anyone imagined and she had left multi-million dollar endowments to various arts organizations and charities. Her children, too, were handsomely provided for, as were her grandchildren, great-grandchildren and various nieces, nephews, and distant cousins. Each of her caregivers received a fifteen hundred dollar check. Stella, who had never had so much money in her life, promptly opened a savings account.
A few days later Charlotte called and said she had something to give her. Stella secretly hoped that Alice had left something private for her, a letter or a note, and she felt a stir of anticipation as she watched Charlotte climb the stairs to her apartment. They went inside and Stella made a pot of tea and Charlotte talked about the funeral and what a kind, generous woman Alice had been.
“The last time I saw her, she said she wanted me to give you this,” Charlotte said, reaching for her purse. But it was only the well-worn copy of Anna Karenina with its familiar inscription.
“She said she wanted you to have it,” Charlotte said, laying it down on the counter between them. “She said it belonged to you.”
Professor Dillard got her a job in the psychology lab and as the fall semester wore on, Stella began to feel like she was back where she belonged. Her grades came up, although not enough to get her into grad school, but with any luck she’d be able to land a social services job after college and eventually (hopefully) earn enough real-life experience to make graduate school possible in the future.
Luke went back to New York to edit his movie but they talked nearly every day. He was planning on returning to Chattanooga in the spring to shoot his footage of Larry and his mother.
Not a day went by when Stella didn’t think of Alice. She could still hear Alice’s voice in her head, its charming inflection, heavy irony, subtle overtones of humor, and she often found herself gathering observations that she could share with Alice later. Oh, I have to tell Alice about that, she would think before remembering, with a clutch of grief and loss, that there would be no more shared secrets with Alice.
It occurred to her that she would always carry Alice’s story in her heart, she would always hear Alice’s voice in her head. She would remember Alice’s anguish as she told her tale, picturing Laura sprawled on the tracks, Brendan Burke going blithely on with his life.
Perhaps that was how immortality was gained after all; by sharing our stories, by living on in each other’s hearts and imaginations.
In the late spring Stella was called into Dr. Dillard’s office for a meeting with Katherine Arcenaux, the head of Financial Aid. Dean Keller was there, too. Stella assumed it had something to do with a small grant she had applied for although she was surprised to see the Dean. Dr. Dillard was quiet, letting the others do most of the talking. She sat staring out the opened window, a slight smile on her face.
Dean Keller was a short, badly-dressed man with a florid complexion. He spoke to Stella in a bright, slightly pompous tone. “As you may or may not know, the late Mrs. Alice Whittington was a staunch benefactress of the University. She left a number of endowments, including one to the psychology department. She named it in honor of a deceased sister. It’s a full-ride scholarship for graduate school to be given to a female student who shows a commitment to the study of clinical psychology. A three-year degree awarded at the Ph. D. level. Full tuition, health insurance while the recipient is enrolled full-time, as well as a stipend in the form of either a teaching assistantship or a laboratory assistantship.” He paused and cleared his throat, looking at Stella.
“That sounds like something Alice would do,” she said.
Dr. Keller continued to stare at her. “She was a very generous woman,” he said. Katherine Arceneux played with a pencil, twirling it between her fingers like a baton.
Dean Keller said pointedly, “So what do you think?”
“Of the scholarship?” Stella pursed her lips. Dr. Dillard gave her a mild, encouraging smile. “I think it’s wonderful. But don’t you have to get a masters degree first?”
“It’s an accelerated program, combining both the masters and the Ph.D.”
Stella played with the hem of her jeans. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of qualified applicants,” she said.
“Stella,” Dr. Dillard said softly.
Katherine Arecenaux stopped flipping the pencil and began to scribble notes on a yellow legal pad.
Dean Keller blinked. “You don’t seem to understand,” he said.
“If you’re suggesting I apply, you obviously haven’t checked my GPA.” She said this without bitterness, shrugging her shoulders carelessly.
“Stella, listen to what he has to say,” Dr. Dillard said.
Dean Keller cleared his throat again and went on. “There are stipulations to the Montclair Scholarship.”
“There always are,” Stella said benignly.
“The most important being that the first Montclair Scholar will be you, Ms. Nightingale. The endowment instructions are clear on that. You can refuse it, if you wish, and we will choose someone else.”
No one said anything. An errant breeze fluttered the papers on Dr. Dillard’s desk. The three of them sat watching Stella who stared blankly at Dean Keller.
“What are you saying?” she said finally.
“What we’re trying to say,” the dean began reasonably. “What we’re trying to tell you is that the scholarship is yours. If you want it.”
In the quiet that followed, Dr. Dillard said softly, “Alice obviously wanted you to go to graduate school.”
Stella stared at Dr. Dillard, feeling a slow swelling beneath her breastbone, a strange sensation of release and purpose. In her head, she could hear Alice laughing.
Outside the window, the leaves of the pear tree rust
led in the breeze. A distant freight train passed, echoing through the valley, its horn sharp, insistent, like the cry of a great, flapping bird.
About the Author
Photo © Shannon Fontaine
CATHY HOLTON is the author of
Revenge of the Kudzu Debutantes,
Secret Lives of the Kudzu Debutantes, Beach Trip,
and Summer in the South.
The mother of three grown children, she lives with her husband and a rescue dog named Yoshi in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Visit her online at www.cathyholton.com.
Table of Contents
Praise for Cathy Holton’s Novels
Title Page
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
About the Author
