“Nobody’s answering,” Luke says. Then he whispers a curse word I’ve only heard at school a couple of times in my life and dials his cell phone a second time.
I swallow hard. My arm is cut, and I don’t want to look at the blood. It’s stinging, and there’s dirt in it. Sebastian’s head is hurt. And where’s Ethan? He was behind us in the hallway.
Tears are burning my eyes, but I’m not going to cry in front of handsome Luke and mean Sebastian. I press my teeth into my bottom lip.
Faintly, I can hear the phone ringing that Luke’s pressed to his ear.Answer. Answer, someone. Please.
“Mom?” Luke says.
I blink and blink to fight back tears.
“Mom, there was an earthquake, and we’re in the basement of the building where we—” he pushes a trembling hand to his forehead—“where we were storing the sports equipment. We need help.”
A very short pause.
“I’m okay.”
Another pause.
“I don’t know. Ethan was with us. But now ...” His voice breaks and, angrily, he turns away from us and walks as far as he can toward a ruined wall. “But now he’s not.”
Chapter Eleven
Genevieve had been imagining Mrs. Birdie Jean Campbell as small and frail. Thus, she was slightly taken aback when a tall, buxom African-American woman answered her knock. Birdie Jean did not radiate frailty. She moved slowly and spoke slowly but accomplished both with dignified assurance.
The older woman ushered Genevieve into the parlor of her two-story Victorian near the heart of the town of Camden, Georgia. The tidy, antique-filled interior smelled like pastry crust and had the ambiance of a museum.
The first several days Genevieve had tried to reach Birdie Jean, the phone had rung and rung. When Birdie Jean had finally picked up, she’d told Genevieve this Monday morning time slot was her earliest opening.
More than a week had now passed since the Fall Fun Day, so Genevieve and Natasha had been given a chance to exercise the virtue of patience.
Genevieve and Birdie Jean settled at a round table and shared pecan pie, lukewarm tea, and conversation. Birdie Jean asked Genevieve questions in a way that reminded Genevieve of an employer interviewing a job applicant. Perhaps she only gave diary access to those who passed her pecan pie test?
Each time Genevieve finished speaking, the elderly woman paused before replying, as if mulling over what Genevieve had just said.
Birdie Jean’s gray-black hair was coiled into a low bun. She wore an elegant pewter-colored sweater set and slacks. No jewelry, save for a simple wedding band. No makeup, save for a neutral shade of peach lipstick with just a hint of shimmer.
Horn-rimmed glasses perched on her large face. Either Birdie Jean was attuned to current eyeglass styles or she’d been wearing that style since the first time it had been popular in the 1950s.
Unobtrusively, Genevieve worked to free a stubborn bit of pecan pie from her molars. The woman at the library had been right to warn her. If Genevieve had tried to eat this pie with a loose crown, she’d have been a goner.
Birdie Jean rested her hands in her lap and studied Genevieve owlishly. Though Genevieve had been working to win the older lady’s approval since entering her home, she didn’t think she’d succeeded. It seemed likely that Birdie Jean might deem her unworthy of the diaries and send her away empty-handed except for the sliver of pie wedged against her tooth.
“Tell me what brought you here today,” Birdie Jean said.
“My mom has been married to my dad for thirty-four years. But she was married once before that, briefly, to a man from Camden who was killed. My sister and I would like to read all the articles about her first husband’s death. We can only find two of them online.”
“What’s your mother’s name?”
“When she lived here in Camden, her name was Caroline Atwell.”
At once, clarity came into Birdie Jean’s time-worn eyes. “I remember.”
A thrill glided down Genevieve’s arms, raising goose bumps.
“She was married to Russell Atwell, yes?” Birdie Jean asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
