To my beloved parents, Worley and Ruby Long Sturgill, who gave me the greatest gift of a lifetime—a home
To my husband, Edward J. Robinson, the other angel in my life who has made all the difference
Copyright © 2020 by Deborah Robinson
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover design by Daniel Brount
Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-6405-7
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-6406-4
Printed in the United States of America
Precious memories, how they linger, how they ever flood my soul
—Traditional gospel song by J. B. F. Wright
Contents
Prologue
Part I: Anna James Jefferson
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part II: Lily Rose Long
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part III: Eric Edward Langvin
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
Prologue
WHEN SHE STEPPED OUT OF the car and looked up, the large country house in front of her wasn’t what she expected. The white, clapboard dwelling had sloping gray roofs, traditional black shutters on the windows, and a sunporch with wooden rocking chairs. Surrounded by oak and maple trees, and lush hydrangeas turning a soft pink in the autumnal air, the place almost looked like a family’s stately, time-honored mansion deep in the woods of Connecticut. But it wasn’t, she reminded herself. It was a mental hospital, and she was here to check herself in.
With trembling hands, she carried her suitcase through the front doors and walked to the intake counter, where the receptionist asked her to fill out some paperwork.
Name…Lily Rose Long
Occupation…
She paused here. She had held the job of fashion director and spokesperson for one of New York City’s oldest and most prestigious department stores for almost ten years, had her own line of boutiques by the age of 33, but she wasn’t sure of where she stood now.
Occupation…business owner
Marital status…
Lily paused even longer here. A few weeks ago, she would have answered confidently, but now even this was up in the air.
Marital status…single
The only thing she could write down with any certainty was her name. But maybe she should start to question that, too. After all, she had been adopted as a baby and had never really known her biological parents. What Lily knew for sure was that within the past week her life had been turned upside down, and she wasn’t sure of who she was anymore.
As Lily passed her completed paperwork and ID card to the receptionist, she wondered if anyone would believe she was the same person in the photo. Certainly she looked nothing like the vibrant, smiling young woman on the card. Lily couldn’t remember the last time she had washed her stringy blond hair, or even taken a shower. She was wearing an old gray sweatshirt and baggy jeans, a far cry from her usual all-black fashion armor of silk top, cigarette pants, and stiletto heels.
Her heart began to race as she lay down on a gurney by the nurse’s station to be observed. Turning her head, she saw the nurse begin to remove items from her suitcase that her friends had packed— perfume, a nail file, poppy-red nail polish, and dental floss—and put them in plastic bags.
“What are you doing with my things?” Lily asked timidly.
“Honey, you’ll get them back later when you’re feeling better,” the nurse said, placing the plastic bags in a metal container with Lily’s name on it. “We can’t allow you to have anything in your room that you might harm yourself with.”
Lily moved her gaze to the clock on the wall. The hands seemed to creep by. Yes, she had thought of ending her life, although she hadn’t told anyone except for her beloved pets—Sable, a Siberian Husky, and Hollywood, a fluffy Himalayan cat. However, it was clear that other people had felt she was capable of this act; otherwise she wouldn’t be here with a stranger rummaging through her belongings.
Having finished with her task, the nurse informed her, “I’m going to give you a little something to help you sleep before we take you to your room. You need to rest now.”
Lily obediently swallowed the pill and watched as the hands of the clock faded away.
When she awoke, it was the next morning and she was in what she guessed was her room. Again, it wasn’t what she expected from a hospital, but a simple, airy space with a twin bed, chest of drawers, a desk, a lamp, and an armchair. Her suitcase was sitting in the middle of the floor. Lily got out of bed and began putting the rest of her things away. Since she had been in no shape to pack, her friends had packed for her—comfortable clothes like T-shirts and sweatpants, sweaters and jeans. Then she felt a little book at the bottom of the suitcase and pulled it out. Someone must have seen it lying on Lily’s bedside table in her apartment and figured it was important. It was a journal that Lily had kept for years, and although it was only half-filled and she rarely wrote in it anymore, she liked to have it nearby. It was as though the thought of writing in it provided enough comfort.
Now she opened the journal to the last page, where a slip of paper lay wedged into the crack of the spine like a bookmark. She unfolded it and read what was written there in clear, graceful penmanship, as if it held the answer to the question she had been asking all her life: the name “Anna James Jefferson.”
PART I: ANNA JAMES JEFFERSON
Blood is not thicker than water
Chapter 1
36 years earlier
ANNA JAMES JEFFERSON—KNOWN AS “JEFF” to her family and friends—lay in a mass of blond curls and a tumble of covers as the October morning light streamed through her bedroom window. From her perspective all she could see was a patch of yellow-striped wallpaper, the edge of a flowered curtain, and an old doll on a bookshelf. Although she was seventeen, her room hadn’t changed much from when she was a little girl, except for the number of cheerleading trophies and pennants that threatened to take over the entire space.
“Jeff, get up, now!” her mother, Jenny, hollered up the stairs. “You know you’re going to be late for the bus, and I don’t have time to drive you to school before work.”
“Just five more minutes!” Jeff called back. It was Friday, and there was nothing going on at school except for the pep rally. Then tonight was the big football game, but the next night—that night was what Jeff rea
lly looked forward to. She rolled over and hugged her pillow, insides quivering with anticipation.
“I can’t be late at the boutique, so please hurry!” The sound of Jenny’s heels clicked down the hall, and before Jeff could react, her mother flung open the door like a cop executing a search warrant.
Jeff scrambled out from under the covers and ran for the shower, mumbling, “Going, going, going,” as she passed Jenny.
In the bathroom, Jeff wiped steam from the mirror and widened her large blue eyes, which were never so piercing as when she stared back at the boys looking at her. Boys were always looking—trying to see what lay beneath the soft curves of her sweater, or traveling up her long, lean legs to where they disappeared beneath the short hem of her cheerleader’s skirt. But no one had succeeded in getting further than that yet, as Jeff considered herself much too good for any of the boys at her high school.
Back in her room, she carefully dressed in the clothes she had laid out the night before: her favorite navy blue plaid skirt, knee socks, and cardigan sweater over a blue blouse that matched her eyes. The way she looked was very important to Jeff, although what she knew of fashion mostly came from the boutique where her mother worked, and her own after-school job at McAlpin’s department store. She and her mother didn’t have money for fancy clothes, especially since her father had unceremoniously up and left one night two years before, and never returned. As her mother liked to say, James Thomas Jefferson certainly hadn’t lived up to his lofty name.
For much of her sophomore year, Jeff could hear her mother crying herself to sleep every night. Jeff cried, too, but mostly she was angry; she hated her father for leaving them alone, for running off without any explanation other than that he wanted to start over. She had always wondered about that—did you get “do overs” when you had a wife and child? She and her mother were making ends meet, but Jeff didn’t tell anyone at school that her dad had left. How could she casually mention to her friends that her dad just didn’t care about her or her mother anymore? As hard as she tried, Jeff couldn’t overcome her shame or embarrassment. When Jenny received divorce papers that summer, Jeff knew her father was gone for good, and she let go of her secret.
“Bye, Mom!” As the bus honked from the street, Jeff grabbed her gym bag and cheerleading uniform and went running past Jenny and out the door like a fawn finding its first legs.
Morning classes went as usual, with Jeff being reprimanded for talking too much during French class. She was a straight-A student but never got better than a B in conduct. Right before lunch, there was the pep rally for the big football game that night where the Paris Panthers would be playing some small school from the mountains. As cheerleading captain, Jeff handled the most difficult stunts. In three neat somersaults, she landed at the top of the wobbling human pyramid. As she looked down at the cheering crowd, she thought about how much she was over all this stupid, small-town stuff. Jeff had a yearning for something else, something beyond Paris, Kentucky. She knew there was a Paris, France, out there, and she was ready to find it.
“P-A-R-I-S Paris Panthers!”
Smack! The next thing Jeff knew, the back of her head hit the shiny hardwood floor. The lights from the gymnasium ceiling multiplied and swirled above her. Faces appeared, staring down at her. She felt herself being lifted onto a stretcher and then whisked out the doors of the school, sirens wailing in the background.
Hours later Jeff woke in a hospital room with a nurse standing by her side.
“What happened?” she asked. “Where’s my mother?”
“She’s already been here once, and she’ll be back soon,” the nurse told her. “You took a nasty fall, but you’re a very lucky young lady. You have some bruises, but you should be fine.”
Jeff breathed a sigh of relief. She might miss tonight’s game, but she would be okay for the big event the following night—the night of the party. As part of a poverty awareness tour, some rich kids from Greenwich, Connecticut, were visiting parts of Appalachia, ending up in Paris and the horse farms nearby. Jeff’s class had nominated her to represent them at a mixer that was taking place at one of the farms. Jeff could just imagine the handsome young men she might meet.
In preparation, Jeff had begged Jenny to let her borrow something from the boutique where she worked, and, glad to see her daughter so excited, Jenny had obtained a French blue cashmere dress with a black satin bow at the neck. It was by far the finest thing Jeff had ever worn, and she trembled as she zipped up the back and stepped into black patent-leather pumps.
“Here,” Jenny said. As a finishing touch, she added a single strand of pearls around Jeff’s neck.
“Thanks, Mom,” Jeff said, eyes shining. A sheer pink lipstick brought out the fullness of her lips, and her long blond hair fell to her waist, held back by a satin hairband. She didn’t look like a teenager but a grown woman.
Borrowing Jenny’s blue-and-white Pontiac station wagon, Jeff drove out of town to the designated horse farm, Memory Lane Farm, for the night’s festivities. Although only minutes away from Paris, it was like stepping into another world. Miles of straight white fences, occasionally broken by an imposing house or barn, stretched on either side of the road. The fields were dark beneath the faint moonlight, the bluegrass lying dormant in the cold until spring. After taking several turns, Jeff drove down a long driveway to a white-columned mansion.
Two men dressed in tuxedos and carrying trays of crystal glasses greeted Jeff at the massive oak front door. After she refused refreshment, she was directed down the hall toward a group of well-dressed people gathered in a chandelier-lit room. She spotted Amanda Brown, her schoolmate who had been selected from the junior class, and went to join her. Amanda was dressed in a simple gray A-line dress with a white collar and black bow. Jeff thought she looked okay but was glad that her own dress was so much more stylish and expensive-looking than her friend’s, even if it wasn’t hers.
“Have you seen any of the delicious poverty hunter boys?” Jeff asked her.
“I think they’re back in the library. I saw a bunch of blue blazers over there,” Amanda replied.
“Paris Panthers on the prowl,” Jeff whispered to Amanda and, giggling, they entered a cherry-paneled room lit by antique lamps.
Arranged around an enormous blazing fireplace were soft, deep, tobacco-colored leather sofas and matching chairs, the likes of which Jeff had never seen before. Ten or so young men dressed in navy blazers and khakis were talking together, looking not much like high school boys, she thought, but purposeful young men. After introducing themselves as student ambassadors from Paris High School, Jeff and Amanda joined their circle. Soon, Jeff discovered that they weren’t discussing solutions for poverty, but rather the bluegrass farms and the famous racehorses they had seen. Although Jeff enjoyed looking at the boys, each more handsome than the next, she quickly tired of the conversation.
Then she heard one boy say, “Hey, Eric, buddy, what took you so long? Did you get lost in a barn?”
All the boys laughed as they opened their ranks and in walked the most beautiful boy Jeff had ever seen. He was over six feet tall, with a rangy, muscular body that was even more attractive standing still than in motion. Thick, pale gold hair fell across his forehead, above deep-set blue eyes that flashed the exact color of the ocean when the sun was shining through it. He had a sharp, square jaw and a smile that showed even, white teeth. Looking at him, Jeff could practically feel her heart beating out of her chest. It reminded her of getting a shot at the doctor’s office, except this was a good thing.
Then she realized he was smiling at her, with his hand extended. “I’m Eric Langvin,” he said, in a voice that made Jeff’s stomach flutter.
“I’m Jeff,” she replied.
Eric arched one sun-bleached eyebrow. “Jeff?”
“I mean, Anna Jefferson. But everyone calls me Jeff,” she felt bold enough to add.
“I was going to say, you’re the prettiest Jeff I’ve ever seen.”
As a b
lushing Jeff took his hand, she was overcome with the strangest sensation, one she had never felt before in all her seventeen years. Her breathing grew shallow and something between her legs began throbbing. This was some handshake.
“Let’s go sit down,” Eric suggested. “Do you want a drink?”
Jeff laced her hands in and out silently. “No, thank you. But I’d love to sit.”
Eric led her to a comfortable sofa by the fire, and they talked about the poverty tour—apparently he was amazed at how small the entrance to one of the coal mines he had visited in eastern Kentucky was. Jeff pointed out that Paris was nothing like the poorer areas of Kentucky; it was only fifteen minutes away from Lexington and right next to the big, rich horse farms. . . . Then she fell silent. She supposed that compared to the girls Eric knew back in Greenwich, she might as well be poverty stricken, too.
Fortunately, Eric changed the subject to hobbies, and Jeff eagerly talked about her cheerleading prowess and how she was captain of the team, while he talked about how much he loved photography, basketball, and sailing on Long Island Sound. Jeff couldn’t help but notice that Eric seemed to be sweating quite a bit, even at one point removing his jacket to reveal broad shoulders, although maybe it was their closeness to the fire. As for herself, Jeff could feel a spreading dampness in her underpants and hoped it wouldn’t ruin her borrowed dress.
When the tension became too much to bear, she jumped up and muttered that she had to go.
Looking disappointed, Eric asked, “Can I see you again? We’re going to be here the whole week.”
Jeff breathlessly agreed and suggested they meet Wednesday night at seven o’clock at the Paris Grille, which despite its evocative name was little more than a hamburger joint. She wasn’t sure if Eric had just asked her on a date or what, but she figured she should keep it casual.
* * *
Wednesday could not come fast enough. That night, Jeff got ready to see Eric again. She slipped into her new blue jeans, the ones that showed off her perfectly rounded bottom, and nervously buttoned her white collared shirt. Then she snipped the price tag off the new baby pink mohair sweater she’d bought with her discount at McAlpin’s. This was the perfect look for tonight: in case this wasn’t a date, she wasn’t too dressed up; in case it was, her outfit set off her figure to its best advantage.
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