“I feel better now that she’s here to look after you.”
So do I.
His sigh is long, but it doesn’t waver. “I think I need to go to King’s End.”
I think so, too.
“I think … hope you understand.”
More than you know.
“I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
He bestows a gentle kiss on her forehead. She tracks his footfalls along the hallway, down the stairs. He leaves by the front door, his own man, of his own volition. That should be enough. Instead, he’s left her with a sliver of hope.
And hope makes everything hurt that much more.
Chapter 19
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Monday, July 10
It’s later—much later, really—when I notice the tender looks between Mort and Jack. The playlist has gone from sweat-sprouting to soft and seductive. Maybe it’s the celebration or the promise of a birthday bash, but I’m pretty sure off again is about to get switched back on.
“I’m calling it a night,” I say.
Of course, they try to talk me out of it. Mort could drink for hours, nap for twenty minutes, and charge out the door to fight an onslaught of Screamers. Since he’s somewhere in Europe, he might have to do just that. Granted, I’ve also seen him crash in the aftermath of all that. Jack, on the other hand, is a bit bleary-eyed.
A look of gratitude washes across his face when I add: “Maybe you two don’t have to walk miles tomorrow, but I do.”
I shut everything down, place my glass in the kitchen sink, and then unearth my mother’s umbrella from its hiding spot in the pantry. For a long moment, I cradle it against my chest. I always hope I’ll sense a connection, somehow reach my mother through her umbrella. But the beautiful rose red is a shade darker, more subdued, now that she’s gone. And her umbrella is as bereft as I am.
Still, I want to feel my mother’s embrace. I want to hear her words of praise. Would she chastise me for showing off? Or would she understand?
Would she, I wonder, be proud of me?
My mother’s umbrella trembles with reassurances. If it could hug me, I think it would. For now, I’m simply glad I don’t have to hide her.
Gently, I slip both umbrellas into the stand next to the front door. Their handles touch. Hints of conversation filter through the air. They are a mother and daughter engaged in a heartfelt chat—about me and how I cruelly separated my umbrella from Agent Darnelle’s.
Really, it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes.
“‘For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo,’” I say to them before heading up the stairs.
Henry Darnelle isn’t the only one who can quote Shakespeare.
Part Two
What’s Past is Prologue
Chapter 20
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
