by Rhett DeVane
Secondhand Sister
by
Rhett DeVane
Secondhand Sister
Copyright © 2015 Rhett DeVane
All rights reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or person—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing.
First edition, Writers4Higher, October 3, 2015
Contents
Secondhand Sister
Copyright © 2015 Rhett DeVane
AT TWILIGHT
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
THE END
Acknowledgements
Book club discussion points
Elvina’s Best-of-Summer Casserole
Hattie’s Best and Easiest Spinach Salad
Mary-Esther’s Boo-Coo Bananas
About the Author
AT TWILIGHT
When day is ending,
And night starts mending
The havoc and strife
That makes up one’s life
When sweet dreams wipe away
The troubles of the day
This is the time that I like best
When everything is at rest.
When the sun goes down
And shadows creep around
To wrap a coat of darkness
Around cares and distress
When the whip-poor-will’s call
Echo beyond the falls
This is the time I like best
When everything is at rest.
By the late Theresa Gibson DeVane
Dedication
In memory of my sweet sister Melody DeVane-Kight, who was by no means a secondhand sister. I hope you feel the sisterly love up there, hon.
To all of my earthly sisters-by-good-fortune, thank you for being in my life.
And to the people displaced and harmed by Hurricane Katrina. May time soften your wounds.
Secondhand Sister
Chapter One
Fall 2006
Chattahoochee, Florida
A tiny brass bell jangled when Mary-Esther pushed open the glass door of the Borrowed Thyme Bakery and Eatery. As if it mattered when she entered anywhere.
She chose a bistro table next to the row of windows, plopped into a chair, and rubbed her burning eyes. Just to sit down, somewhere other than behind the wheel.
Two hundred and thirteen dollars left. Shouldn’t waste a quarter. But the aroma of brewed coffee snared her, more than the smell of cooked bacon and warm cinnamon.
A man wearing a white chef’s apron appeared by her table with a carafe. Thank the saints. “Coffee this morning?”
Mary-Esther met his eyes. The man blanched and his hand shook. Wow. Did she look as kicked-dog as she felt?
“Are you passing through?” He idled beside her table.
Passing through. Yep. Like I have a place to be. “On my way to a town near here. I . . . I’ve been on the road a bit.” Since my home got washed away in Hurricane Katrina, she often added to explain her vagabond clothing and hair. “I must look a mess.”
“Oh. No. Sorry.” The man wiped one hand across the apron. “You remind me of someone I once knew.”
She turned a chunky, white porcelain mug over in its saucer. “I’ll take that coffee. As long as it’s black, strong, and not decaf.”
He poured. Steam curled. “Let me tend my pancakes before they burn and I’ll be back to take your order. Menu’s on the clip.”
Mary-Esther took a sip—no cream, no sugar. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the flavor. Wasn’t the chicory blend she craved, but better than fast food sludge. If they charged four bucks a cup, it was still worth it.
Even in their low-rent borough, her Nana Boudreau had insisted on decent coffee. Loss sucked at her. That last failed marriage, Nana Boudreau, and her mother.
Then her city, ground to mud.
Maybe the caffeine would ease the weariness. She couldn’t remember a time in the past months when she hadn’t felt bone-deep tired.
Mary-Esther watched the man scurry back to the griddle. Didn’t seem like the short-order cook type. Words too precise, no Southern drawl. In a few minutes, he had delivered loaded plates to nearby diners, refilled mugs, and once again stood by her table, giving her that same odd stare. “Decided?” he asked.
Mary-Esther twirled a stray hank of auburn hair around one finger. Maybe she could stick to coffee. Shouldn’t spend any more, but dear God, did this place ever smell good. “Give me an egg over easy and one piece of wheat toast.”
“I make a mean Southern buttermilk biscuit. Sure you won’t try one with your egg?”
The smile barely made it to her lips. “Sure.”
He left again.
She picked at one torn cuticle until blood pearled at the edges. Suppose it fit in with what remained of her ragged, crap pile life.
Moments later, the man—Joe Fletcher, according to the embroidered script on his apron—slid a plate in front of her.
She stared at the dish. “That is the biggest biscuit I have ever seen.”
“Cathead biscuit. Made the old-fashioned way. Recipe belonged to my late mother-in-law.” Joe tipped his head toward a glass display shelf behind the cash register. “That was her favorite mixing bowl, up there.” He then motioned to an oak sideboard. “Help yourself to the homemade jellies and honey. The tupelo’s very good, a premium honey. Beekeeper is local. His tested out at ninety-eight percent pure. I was accustomed to buckwheat honey, up in New York.”
He dashed back to the tiny kitchen, but Mary-Esther caught him studying her. Like he was trying to see through her skin. It probably looked dirty too. Other than spot cleaning in rest stop bathrooms, she hadn’t had a decent bath since she left that last shelter in Alabama.
She hated to hurt his feelings, but walking the two feet to the sideboard would take more energy than she had. Sitting slumped, Mary-Esther Day Alford Fernandez Sloat slathered on butter and nipped pieces of the hot biscuit. Perfectly cooked, but her mouth tasted like delta mud. The runny egg yolk made her stomach roil. Crazy, starving yet too tired to eat. She wrapped the remaining biscuit in a
napkin then pushed the plate aside.
Mary-Esther focused absently out the plate glass window facing West Washington Street—Chattahoochee’s main business thoroughfare. It had taken her less than two minutes to drive from one city limit sign to the other. Except for the state mental hospital at the east end, it looked like every other small Florida Panhandle town she had passed through. Still, she preferred the secondary roads to the interstate.
No doubt, rows of cozy houses lined the other streets in this town. Houses with contented families going about mundane duties—watering flowers, chasing tow-headed toddlers, gossiping to neighbors over mugs of coffee or syrupy sweet tea. Same way in New Orleans, only the chicory coffee was stronger and most folks on her old street didn’t budge until mid-day.
Did these people dream of escaping to somewhere, anywhere else? Didn’t they know how lucky they were?
Mary-Esther cradled the mug. For a little over a year, since nature’s fury had wiped the Louisiana and Mississippi coasts like a damp rag dragged across spilled gumbo, her home had been a sun-bleached blue Chevy van.
Fine for drug-crazed hippies, but not for a middle-aged woman with little money and less hope.
Chapter Two
A few miles east of Chattahoochee, Mary-Esther pulled into a weedy rest stop, double-checked the locks, and crawled onto the thin mattress in the back. In spite of the caffeine, she fell asleep. Six hours later, she jerked awake and drove the remaining twenty miles into Quincy.
A Saint Christopher medallion dangled from the rearview mirror. Patron saint of travelers. Mary-Esther sent up a rote prayer. Carry me safely to my destined place.
She pulled into a vertical parking slot on a paved cul-de-sac and turned the key. For a full minute, the engine bucked and shook, and finally died. The scent of scorched oil filtered into the cabin. The low sign off State Highway 90 had read: Gadsden County Sheriff’s Department, W. A. Woodham Justice Center. Mary-Esther double-checked the address of the hospital listed in faded print on her birth certificate.
“Great. A dead end.”
What was the point? Did she seriously believe evidence of her roots lay in the sandy North Florida soil? And if she did uncover some shred of truth, what then?
An aged Southern magnolia tree shaded a broad patch of grass near the parking lot. Even during the mild Deep South winters, the waxy, thick, green leaves would remain. Her favorite magnolia shaded Nana Boudreau’s back yard, or it used to. Who knew what it looked like now? If it was as she had seen in the TV clips of her borough, the winds had probably shredded it into twisted knurls.
She sighed, pulled a diet soda and half of a bologna and cheese sandwich from a battered Styrofoam cooler, and shoulder-bumped the driver’s side door until it opened with a loud groan. She walked a few feet and threw a frayed towel onto the ground in the tree’s shade. I can eat lunch in peace, if nothing else. With all the patrol cars lined up, who would be dumb enough to bother her?
The solitude lasted for a short while before a deputy stepped from the building’s double doors and walked toward a line of patrol vehicles. He opened the door of the third car, stared in her direction, then clicked it shut and sauntered toward her.
Oh, wonderful. Would he be another person prompting her to move along? All she asked was a few minutes. Cram a sandwich down, beneath this tree, then gone. Like I was never here.
“Afternoon, ma’am.” He punctuated the greeting with a head dip.
Mary-Esther brushed the mayonnaise and breadcrumbs from the corners of her lips. “Afternoon, officer.”
“Having yourself a picnic, I see.”
People had such a penchant for stating the obvious. “Seemed as good a place as any.”
“There are some benches off the backside of the building, if you’d rather not sit on the ground.”
Heat rose to Mary-Esther’s face. She was a genuine sucker for a man in a uniform, no matter if he had spare padding around his midsection and a fair share of wrinkles. And this one had one of those deep, chocolaty voices. “Thank you. I kind of like this spot, unless it’s trespassing or something.”
“Not at all.” The officer, J. Blount from his gold-tinted nametag, looked up. “Yep. This is a fine old tree. Blooms the size of grapefruit, come late spring. Glad they didn’t cut ’er down when they widened the parking lot.”
Mary-Esther grappled for a conversation point. Exactly what did one talk about to a local deputy? Sergeant Blount squinted in the direction of the parked van. “Passing through, are you? Noticed your Louisiana plates.”
Ah, the real reason for the polite chat. Was she a threat to order and harmony? “I was looking for something.” She motioned with her head. “But I found the sheriff’s department instead.”
When he didn’t offer a reply, Mary-Esther crumpled the plastic wrap and soiled napkin into a paper bag. “The Gadsden County Hospital. I was born here.” She swiped a hand in the direction of the building. “At least, this is the address on my birth certificate.”
“Yeah. Used to be on this spot. That was years back, though. Library shared our building for a while, but they moved out to a new location too. The hospital went up about two miles east of here, off Highway 90.”
“Really?” She stood and shook the dried grass from the towel. “I’ll head that way, then.”
Sergeant Blount rocked back on his heels and bounced, his thumbs tucked beneath the wide, black leather belt holding his gun and an assortment of snap-on accessories. “It shut down a few months back. Money problems.”
Mary-Esther’s shoulders sagged. “Great.”
“What’re you looking for, exactly? Not trying to pry into your business, mind you. But I’ve lived in these parts all my life. Maybe I can point you in the right direction. If not, surely someone in the department can. C’mon inside with me.”
Mary-Esther pinched her lips together and fought the press of tears. So many people had offered assistance since Hurricane Katrina. Well-meaning folks. Folks who arrived with truckloads of ice and food. Pats on the back and hugs. Staffing shelters for weeks past the storm. Trying their best to help her put her life back together.
Like that was possible.
She threw the towel and trash into the van and followed the officer into the building. Inside, a sixty-ish woman with tightly coiffured hair in an odd shade of orange looked up from a computer console.
“Sheila, this lady needs some help.” Officer Blount nodded towards Mary-Esther, and she gave a brief rundown.
The woman tapped her chin with a manicured fingernail. “Don’t know of any of the doctors who would still be around from then. Tell you who might be able to help, though. My Aunt LaJune. She was a nurse at Gadsden County Hospital back in the day. She’s in the assisted living home about four blocks from here. Some days, Aunt Juney can’t remember what she had for breakfast, but she can recall years ago like it was yesterday.”
The woman scratched a name and address on a yellow sticky note and handed it to Mary-Esther. “Tell her Sheila sent you. Aunt Juney will talk your head off. I don’t know if I’m helping or hindering by sending you there. Her mind wanders, so you’ll have a time of it keeping her on track.”
Mary-Esther tucked the slip of paper into her pocket. “I’m used to wandering.”
*
Mary-Esther parked the van in a tight spot opposite a gold vintage Cadillac and contemplated going inside. Sewanee Springs. What a name for a retirement home. Bet there wasn’t an actual spring for miles.
The facility’s white-columned, faux Dixie mansion façade didn’t fit with its true nature. Lanky, well-dressed plantation gentlemen smoking cigars and sipping mint juleps beside their hoop-skirted consorts would have been better suited to the setting than the scattering of elderly residents taking in the mid-afternoon breeze.
“What the heck.” She turned the key and tugged it from the ignition. The engine wheezed twice then fell silent. It would probably leave the usual pools of fluids on the pavement.
A reception
room with overstuffed chairs and mahogany tables continued the graceful old-folks-at-home theme. The bubble-haired woman behind a spotless desk glanced up and smiled. “Welcome to Sewanee Springs.” Her voice oozed Deep South charm. “How may I help you?”
Hep yew? Did people really talk like that, all syrupy and slow? Sure, New Orleans was part of the South, but none of her people spoke exaggerated Southern. “I’m here to see LaJune Eldridge.”
“Is Miz LaJune expecting you?” The woman’s thin, penciled eyebrows arched.
“No, but I’d like to speak with her.”
“I’m afraid I cannot give out her private information without her consent.”
National security? Homeland protection? What? Mary-Esther mustered her best congenial attitude. Since the terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers in 2001, people didn’t have tolerance for pushy strangers asking questions. Not even in a small town in the middle of Podunk.
“Could you perhaps be so kind as to phone her and ask her to meet me down here?”
The woman looked her up and down, her lips pursed.
“It’s really important. I’ve come such a long way.” Mary-Esther paused. Should she play the sympathy trump card? “I drove in from New Orleans, you see.”
It worked. The woman’s face morphed instantly from guarded to gracious. She patted her hand to her upper chest in a genteel gesture meant to convey either sympathetic shock or an attack of gas. “You poor dear! Did you go through that dreadful Hurricane Katrina?”
Mary-Esther almost smiled at the way the woman added extra syllables into dreadful. No need to fabricate the answer. “Yes. I did.”
“My husband’s second cousin lives in Biloxi, Mississippi. Or he used to. His home ended up flattened like a pancake, bless his heart. The foundation and some steps were all left standing. He and his family are staying up in Georgia with kinfolk.”
“I know how he feels. I don’t have a house to go back to either.”
The woman picked up the phone and jabbed a series of numbers. She returned the headset to its base after a short conversation.
