Devon nodded. “Cool. Me, too.”
The bus pulled up, and as they piled on, Devon could see his uncle’s car cruise slowly by, low bass pumping from the speakers. Then T gunned the engine and roared off.
Devon watched the car until it turned the corner and the bus passed it by.
Don’t come back. We’re fine on our own.
CHAPTER 7
Rebecca
The June sun was still low in the sky Saturday morning as Rebecca eased her run from a full throttle into the cooldown. Her feet made slapping sounds as she jogged the wide loop of sidewalk from Main Street past the post office and turned right onto Church Street, where the newspaper office was nestled. Despite the early hour, it was blazing hot. Her hair was matted to her head and neck, her T-shirt drenched, and the bugs nipped at her ankles already.
Her therapist said she needed to get regular exercise, said the release of endorphins would help keep the depression at bay. And she didn’t disagree; she’d packed on a few extra pounds the last couple months between the binge eating during crying jags and the Prozac, which made her feel puffy and nauseous. She knew as well as anyone she needed to get better, get her “me” back. Get back to normal and, as soon as possible, get back to New York.
She took a mouthful from her water bottle and surveyed the street. She supposed some people would call it idyllic, and truly it was pretty. The sidewalks were the older kind, chunky not-so-perfect concrete, and little tufts of grass peeked up from the cracksin places where property owners hadn’t stringently clipped them back. The slabs were uneven here and there, which was murder on her joints, and in one spot, the sidewalk wrapped around a tree, its roots gnarled and older than the town itself.
Church Street wasn’t the most creative name, but it was apt. Lining the street was church after church—Baptist, Presbyterian, a tiny Church of God on the left at the end. Granny’s church was there on the right, and she studied the cheerful brick façade, marveled that while the church looked like any other, with its stained glass and statues and cutesy little sign advertising worship times and the requisite soul-save, within those walls at any hour could be any number of happenings. Granny had told her that while the church was technically part of a denomination, that aspect of it had almost been forgotten. It had become such an integral part of the town that people just called it Dahlia First. There was even talk of a name change.
Granny was active in church. Rebecca supposed with Gramps gone, her only child moved away, and most of her friends active in church, too, Granny would naturally gravitate there as a home away from home, but it seemed like every day she was dropping off yarn for the prayer shawl knitters, popping in to organize the preschool art supplies or teach some Bible class, or delivering food for the church’s once-a-month teen dance party, like she’d done last night.
How did they all fit in that place? Rebecca cocked her head as she took her slow jog to a brisk walk. She was out of breath anyway, felt a twinge in her hip that made her recognize she was definitely not in her twenties anymore. Or her thirties. A flash came of Peter and his new fiancée at the 5K, and she scowled as she forced herself to think of something, anything else. Who cared if Peter and Ms. Bouncy Hair Pert Nose had the energy of two kids? She had more important things to worry about.Like her paper. Or making it to the office before she collapsed from heat stroke.
She studied the pretty sanctuary and the no-frills fellowship hall, then realized too late she was also staring at the pastor, who’d come out of the parsonage and was waving at her like he meant it.
“Hey there, Miz Rebecca!” Granny’s pastor Dave Benson, an older stick of a man with so many freckles she knew his pale hair had once been red, held a hose and was busy watering the church landscaping. Somehow the rubber slip-on shoes and khaki cargo shorts looked entirely out of place on this man of God, whom she half expected to be wearing some sort of collar or robe at home, and she stared a moment before remembering to respond.
“Hope to see you in church tomorrow with your granny,” he called. “We’d love to have you.”
“Thanks,” she managed with a wave and kept walking. “Maybe so.”
She had absolutely no intention of attending, but she’d found it was far more polite to be noncommittal than admit the truth: unless it was Christmas, Easter, or somebody’s wedding, she’d rather be scanning headlines in her bed than dolled up in some flowery dress making niceties and drinking bad coffee after the service. God was fine, but she preferred a more solitary way to explore religion. Besides, the music drove her nuts.
And nuts was the last thing she needed to be feeling. She was sure her therapist would agree.
Her skin felt mildly cool, her cheeks returning to a semi-normal flush by the time she made it to the newspaper office, dug out the key from her running shorts, and let herself in.
“Well, good morning, Miss Becca!” The saccharine voice from behind made her jump, and she turned to find a woman with steel gray hair and vivid red walking shorts, already coiffed at seven o’clock. “I know your granny. Lib Pauling.” She gestured to herselfand beamed, one manicured hand firmly on her well-apportioned bosom, the other on the open newspaper office door.
“Please, call me Rebecca. Nice to meet you, Lib.” Rebecca held out a hand, conscious of her sweat-drenched T-shirt and short running shorts, which Lib Pauling gave the once-over while still somehow maintaining eye contact. Becca. Would she ever escape that?
“I was just going to leave this outside, but here.” Lib reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope, began to slide several glossy photos and a handwritten sheet of paper from it. Rebecca could see a wide-eyed, chubby-cheeked baby, and Lib grew animated. “My new precious grandbaby! Annette Lynae Richardson, after her mama’s great auntie who passed two months ago, bless her. Would you look at those cheeks?”
Rebecca rolled her eyes inwardly and made nice over the pictures.
“You must be so proud! We’d love to run them. You do know our new policy, Lib?”
Lib smiled winningly and fanned herself with the envelope.
“Well, since I’m your granny’s best friend and all, I figured that didn’t apply to me.”
Best friend? Not likely. Rebecca gave her most sympathetic expression.
“I really wish I could, but we’ve had to make a lot of changes to keep our numbers up. I’m sorry, but we have to charge for birth announcements and obituaries across the board now, no exceptions. Here, let me get you an ad sheet.”
Lib’s face pinked, and she fanned herself faster.
“I—charge? For a picture of my newborn granddaughter in my own town’s newspaper?”
