her.
“That song he walked out on?” Lynn continued. “He wrote it when he was seventeen years old—it’s been recorded about a dozen times. And it’s just one of many. There are those who say his songs are some of the best of this generation.”
Celia uttered an earthy curse. Her heart plummeted. “I would rather he’d been a drifter,” she said harshly, then excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.
She splashed cold water on her face. It was bad enough that he was physically the most compelling man she’d ever seen, that his eyes were so lonely they made her want to cry, that he was so much like one of her father’s heroes she wanted to kill him.
But he was a blues man, a
wandering
blues man. It would be hard to imagine a worse choice.
She tore a paper towel from the dispenser and blotted the moisture from her face, staring at herself in the mirror. Her eyes went hard.
Eric was right. She didn’t want to know him.
Chapter 7
E ric approached the high school with a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. A handful of children shimmied up a cottonwood tree Eric remembering climbing himself as a child. He envied them for an instant. If only he were five and Laura eight, playing Robin Hood in the trees.
Inside, there were hand-lettered signs posted on the walls—tempera paint on butcher paper, the same kind of signs he remembered from his short term in these halls. But instead of asking support for glee club or announcing a bake sale, the signs pointed toward various Red Cross stations.
An arrow directed him toward the auditorium, a musty-smelling room with heavy velvet drapes. Eric paused at the doors. A woman passed him, her head down, her face running with tears she couldn’t control.
Dread seized him again.
Sweet Jesus
, he prayed.
Don’t let her be dead
.
He set his jaw and pushed through the doors. A knot of people on the old wooden stage gathered before a table staffed by several volunteers. One of them was Lynn Williams, a woman he’d known since sixth grade. He joined the line in front of her.
When his turn came, she looked up wearily, and seeing Eric, smiled. “Hello there, stranger. Sit down.”
Her friendliness eased the fear in his chest. “Hi, Lynn. How are you doing?”
“Can’t complain.” She folded her long fingers together. “Is this business or social?”
He took a breath. “Business,” he growled, and cleared his throat. “I can’t find Laura and—well,” he looked at Lynn. “I guess I figured you’d know who was dead.”
“Oh, honey.” She touched his hand over the table and squeezed his fingers. “Hang on. I’ll get the lists.”
It seemed to take forever for her to stand up and cross the slats to another small table piled with computer printouts. Eric watched her flip through one stack, then pick up another, her neat, dark head bent over the lists as she walked back. A pulse beat in his ears, thready with terror.
She sat back down and looked at him, shaking her head. “There are three counties affected by the flood. Twelve people are reported dead—four all from one farm down river. Nobody else fits Laura’s description.” She glanced up. “There’s a missing persons list about a page long. I can put her on that, but you may not hear anything for a while.”
Eric nodded. A weakness of relief and renewed worry skimmed his nerves for an instant, making it hard to speak. “Put her on the list.” He narrowed his eyes. “Is Jake Gaines on there?”
Lynn nodded without even having to check. “His mama and sisters were in here the day the Red Cross got here, screaming about their baby.” She rolled her eyes. “Never met such a useless bunch in my life.”
Eric grinned. “Thanks, Lynn.” He stood up, mindful of the others waiting their turns.
“Don’t be such a stranger, now, you hear?” Lynn said, sliding the stacks of paper to one side. “Stop in and have some coffee with me some evenin’.”
He tipped an imaginary hat.
“That song he walked out on?” Lynn continued. “He wrote it when he was seventeen years old—it’s been recorded about a dozen times. And it’s just one of many. There are those who say his songs are some of the best of this generation.”
Celia uttered an earthy curse. Her heart plummeted. “I would rather he’d been a drifter,” she said harshly, then excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.
She splashed cold water on her face. It was bad enough that he was physically the most compelling man she’d ever seen, that his eyes were so lonely they made her want to cry, that he was so much like one of her father’s heroes she wanted to kill him.
But he was a blues man, a
wandering
blues man. It would be hard to imagine a worse choice.
She tore a paper towel from the dispenser and blotted the moisture from her face, staring at herself in the mirror. Her eyes went hard.
Eric was right. She didn’t want to know him.
Chapter 7
E ric approached the high school with a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. A handful of children shimmied up a cottonwood tree Eric remembering climbing himself as a child. He envied them for an instant. If only he were five and Laura eight, playing Robin Hood in the trees.
Inside, there were hand-lettered signs posted on the walls—tempera paint on butcher paper, the same kind of signs he remembered from his short term in these halls. But instead of asking support for glee club or announcing a bake sale, the signs pointed toward various Red Cross stations.
An arrow directed him toward the auditorium, a musty-smelling room with heavy velvet drapes. Eric paused at the doors. A woman passed him, her head down, her face running with tears she couldn’t control.
Dread seized him again.
Sweet Jesus
, he prayed.
Don’t let her be dead
.
He set his jaw and pushed through the doors. A knot of people on the old wooden stage gathered before a table staffed by several volunteers. One of them was Lynn Williams, a woman he’d known since sixth grade. He joined the line in front of her.
When his turn came, she looked up wearily, and seeing Eric, smiled. “Hello there, stranger. Sit down.”
Her friendliness eased the fear in his chest. “Hi, Lynn. How are you doing?”
“Can’t complain.” She folded her long fingers together. “Is this business or social?”
He took a breath. “Business,” he growled, and cleared his throat. “I can’t find Laura and—well,” he looked at Lynn. “I guess I figured you’d know who was dead.”
“Oh, honey.” She touched his hand over the table and squeezed his fingers. “Hang on. I’ll get the lists.”
It seemed to take forever for her to stand up and cross the slats to another small table piled with computer printouts. Eric watched her flip through one stack, then pick up another, her neat, dark head bent over the lists as she walked back. A pulse beat in his ears, thready with terror.
She sat back down and looked at him, shaking her head. “There are three counties affected by the flood. Twelve people are reported dead—four all from one farm down river. Nobody else fits Laura’s description.” She glanced up. “There’s a missing persons list about a page long. I can put her on that, but you may not hear anything for a while.”
Eric nodded. A weakness of relief and renewed worry skimmed his nerves for an instant, making it hard to speak. “Put her on the list.” He narrowed his eyes. “Is Jake Gaines on there?”
Lynn nodded without even having to check. “His mama and sisters were in here the day the Red Cross got here, screaming about their baby.” She rolled her eyes. “Never met such a useless bunch in my life.”
Eric grinned. “Thanks, Lynn.” He stood up, mindful of the others waiting their turns.
“Don’t be such a stranger, now, you hear?” Lynn said, sliding the stacks of paper to one side. “Stop in and have some coffee with me some evenin’.”
He tipped an imaginary hat.
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