it starts. It’s been sitting there awhile. Salt air is corrosive to the soft engine parts.”
She pulled out her key ring and worked to detach the van ’s key. “Give it a try.”
She walked outside with Brian while Megan watched TV. The engine turned over and purred, first try.
He smiled at her. “Sounds good to me.”
She looked aside, avoiding his blue eyes and his smile, and saw papers scattered on the center console and across the passenger seat. An old paper coffee cup was on the floor. General disorder.
She frowned. “It’s kind of a mess.”
Brian shrugged. “Not so much. I’ll bag the papers and anything that looks worth keeping and bring them back to you. Maybe put Megan to work.”
“ Thanks.” She nodded.
“ It’s a great idea. This van needs to stay usable, ready for Will when he comes home. I’ll get someone to bring me by later to pick up the bike.”
“ Seriously, Brian. Do you think he’ll ever be able to drive it again?”
“ Drive? Probably not, but it means more to him than that. Drive or not drive, it means independence to him.”
“ Sure.” She shrugged and walked away, feeling stung. Independence. Everyone wanted it, but it was harder to hold onto than people admitted. She knew that, for sure.
****
The crepe myrtles were flourishing. The lawn was still immaculate. Glimpses of the Denman home through the trees were attractive and impressive.
Nothing had changed here.
Frannie sat in the parked car and held the letter to her heart like a talisman—a talisman more than thirty years old and fragile. She slid it into her purse. Better safe than sorry. She exited the car half-expecting the front door to open and Mother to pop out, ready to rule, fully prepared to subdue anyone or anything inclined to be unruly. When Frannie pushed the car door closed, it gave a thud. All the way to the house, she watched for the front door to swing inward and Laurel to appear on the threshold.
She was thirty and afraid of her mother. No more excuses about wishing she could be dutiful and loving. Today she admitted she was a coward who needed a secret charm to carry with her into battle. Or, perhaps more appropriately, an ace in the hole, to be revealed if Laurel tried to continue the… Myth was the kindest word she could think of.
What was Laurel to her anyway? Her mother? Stepmother? At the very least, she was the woman, the mother, who’d raised her. She was also a last link to her father.
Frannie unlocked the front door and let herself in.
No Laurel in the foyer. Not in the living room, not in the kitchen. She went down the long hallway to the garage. No car. No maid. No Laurel.
Perhaps a reprieve? She kicked off her shoes and went upstairs. As long as she was here, she could grab a few things to take back with her to Captain’s Walk .
Her room was as tidy as ever. The bed was made and the bureau was dust-free.
She opened the closet door and flipped on the light. The closet was almost as large as Uncle Will’s smallest bedroom, and incredibly neat—small thanks to her. She pulled out her roller suitcase, tossed it on the bed and unzipped it, throwing it open. She went through the drawers, gathering an item here, a shirt there. Shoes. What shoes did she need? She wouldn’t mind having those fur-lined booties. Winter wasn’t over yet. She headed back to the closet.
Custom shelving ran from floor to ceiling. The safe was secured on a lower shelf. She’d brought her sapphires with her, still in the sock and tucked in her coat pocket. But maybe she wouldn’t put them back into the safe. Not yet.
She pushed aside a couple of purses and caught sight of an old cigar box tucked into the shadows of a dark corner. The box. She hadn ’t thought about it in a long time. It held only a handful of small treasures and it was stashed in that dark place because Laurel was all about organization. In the same way that the carefully planned closet sections organized and controlled the shoes
She pulled out her key ring and worked to detach the van ’s key. “Give it a try.”
She walked outside with Brian while Megan watched TV. The engine turned over and purred, first try.
He smiled at her. “Sounds good to me.”
She looked aside, avoiding his blue eyes and his smile, and saw papers scattered on the center console and across the passenger seat. An old paper coffee cup was on the floor. General disorder.
She frowned. “It’s kind of a mess.”
Brian shrugged. “Not so much. I’ll bag the papers and anything that looks worth keeping and bring them back to you. Maybe put Megan to work.”
“ Thanks.” She nodded.
“ It’s a great idea. This van needs to stay usable, ready for Will when he comes home. I’ll get someone to bring me by later to pick up the bike.”
“ Seriously, Brian. Do you think he’ll ever be able to drive it again?”
“ Drive? Probably not, but it means more to him than that. Drive or not drive, it means independence to him.”
“ Sure.” She shrugged and walked away, feeling stung. Independence. Everyone wanted it, but it was harder to hold onto than people admitted. She knew that, for sure.
****
The crepe myrtles were flourishing. The lawn was still immaculate. Glimpses of the Denman home through the trees were attractive and impressive.
Nothing had changed here.
Frannie sat in the parked car and held the letter to her heart like a talisman—a talisman more than thirty years old and fragile. She slid it into her purse. Better safe than sorry. She exited the car half-expecting the front door to open and Mother to pop out, ready to rule, fully prepared to subdue anyone or anything inclined to be unruly. When Frannie pushed the car door closed, it gave a thud. All the way to the house, she watched for the front door to swing inward and Laurel to appear on the threshold.
She was thirty and afraid of her mother. No more excuses about wishing she could be dutiful and loving. Today she admitted she was a coward who needed a secret charm to carry with her into battle. Or, perhaps more appropriately, an ace in the hole, to be revealed if Laurel tried to continue the… Myth was the kindest word she could think of.
What was Laurel to her anyway? Her mother? Stepmother? At the very least, she was the woman, the mother, who’d raised her. She was also a last link to her father.
Frannie unlocked the front door and let herself in.
No Laurel in the foyer. Not in the living room, not in the kitchen. She went down the long hallway to the garage. No car. No maid. No Laurel.
Perhaps a reprieve? She kicked off her shoes and went upstairs. As long as she was here, she could grab a few things to take back with her to Captain’s Walk .
Her room was as tidy as ever. The bed was made and the bureau was dust-free.
She opened the closet door and flipped on the light. The closet was almost as large as Uncle Will’s smallest bedroom, and incredibly neat—small thanks to her. She pulled out her roller suitcase, tossed it on the bed and unzipped it, throwing it open. She went through the drawers, gathering an item here, a shirt there. Shoes. What shoes did she need? She wouldn’t mind having those fur-lined booties. Winter wasn’t over yet. She headed back to the closet.
Custom shelving ran from floor to ceiling. The safe was secured on a lower shelf. She’d brought her sapphires with her, still in the sock and tucked in her coat pocket. But maybe she wouldn’t put them back into the safe. Not yet.
She pushed aside a couple of purses and caught sight of an old cigar box tucked into the shadows of a dark corner. The box. She hadn ’t thought about it in a long time. It held only a handful of small treasures and it was stashed in that dark place because Laurel was all about organization. In the same way that the carefully planned closet sections organized and controlled the shoes
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