Palmetto Moon by Kim Boykin Page A

liturgical Episcopal service I grew up with.”
    Frank sits across from her, because standing over her seems wrong; he should be down on his knees, so he won’t miss a beat between his confession and begging for forgiveness.
    “That sermon today was for me.” She looks puzzled and starts to say something, but he cuts her off. “The reverend had good reason to preach it. When I was fifteen I . . . his wife . . . we—”
    “Oh, Frank.” She laughs until she sees he’s serious. She reaches out and runs her fingers down the side of his face. He leans his head against her hand, sandwiching it against his shoulder for a few seconds.
    “You mean—” She stops when he nods his head. “Oh, Frank, you can’t be serious. You were just a boy.”
    He can’t look at her. “It lasted about a year. She left after he caught us.” But the good reverend didn’t leave. He’ll probably stay here until he dies, to remind Frank of what he did.
    “And you think people think differently of you because of that?”
    “I know they do. There were people there today who believe
they’ll
burn in hell if they darken my door. They drive all the way to Walterboro for groceries and only come into the store if it’s a dire emergency.” He looks at her so she’ll know he’s sincere, that he’s trying to own up to what he did. “I don’t regret asking you out Monday night, but maybe I shouldn’t have. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”
    “Did you love her?” Vada’s face is serious.
    “I thought I did. Lila was pretty, but she was always so sad.” Except when she was with Frank and she seemed happy, in a desperate sort of way. “You’re right, I was just a boy. A stupid boy.”
    She stands and brushes off the front of her dress. Her long, slender fingers pluck one of the mimosa blossoms that matches her dress. She twirls it around the tip of her nose, looking at Frank, deciding his fate.
    “I wanted you to know—thought it was only fair that you know what you’re getting into by being with me.”
    His breath leaves him as she turns and walks away. He can’t move a muscle; besides, he has no right to go after her, to start something with her that might soil her good name. All he can do is watch her as she goes. She looks back over her shoulder and starts up the steps of the diner, a silent invitation. He starts breathing again, believing again.

• Chapter Nine •

    He’s put a tablecloth on the center table. There’s even a mason jar with wildflowers from the field between here and the church. I recognize the tall, spritely buttercups and the pretty yellow and orange blanket flowers that trail gracefully out of the makeshift vase, but I’ve never seen the frilly blue flowers before. I take a seat, add my mimosa blossom to the jar, and prop my chin up on my hands to let Frank know I’m not going anywhere.
    Just the thought of what that horrible man did to Frank today, and in a church no less, makes my blood boil. I’m sure the last thing Frank Darling wanted was to go back to that place, and yet he did it for me. And that awful woman who, well, I’m not sure what the word is for deflowering a boy. What about her? Oh, and the reverend, with his evil eyes, singing that last hymn at the top of his lungs? Why,
he’s
the abomination, and his wife is not much better.
    I watch Frank in the kitchen, fixing our plates. I can see the hurt on his face. Every once in a while, he looks up to see if I’m still here. I won’t embarrass him further by saying the words out loud, but I’m staying put.
    He sets two plates on the table, sits down, and starts eating. I bow my head, and he drops his fork. “Dear God,” I say, reaching for Frank’s hand, “bless us, your creatures, for the food we are about to receive and keep us mindful that you are a loving and forgiving God. Amen.”
There.
I smile at him. “Let’s eat.”
    The food is scrumptious, and the longer we eat, the better Frank seems to feel. He