She was still laughing to herself as she walked off down the path. Good for JJ—Josh. A family, a business, and a house in his own hometown. Living the nice, clean, wholesome life. It suited him.
She wondered about the woman he’d married, where they lived, what it would have felt like to have stayed here in this little Southern town, where they spent their Sundays going to church and their Fridays at the high school football game instead of rubbing elbows with the Who’s Who of the city.
She sidestepped a thick branch in the path. Two invitations to church in one day. She gazed up as she walked, peered at the sun behind a big mass of white. God was out there, in the clouds somewhere, sure. But how in the world people got from this abstract higher power notion to daily prayer and what Granny liked to call “a personal relationship with Jesus Christ the savior” was beyond her.
It all sounded like a bunch of wishful thinking.
???
Early the next morning, Rebecca was fumbling with the house key, locking up on the front porch, when her cell phone rang. Granny.
“Hi, Granny, what’s up?” Her shoulder jammed the cell phone to her ear.
“Honey, I left a box of school supplies that I desperately need sitting right there on the kitchen counter. Have you already left the house? Do you see it?”
Rebecca set her workbag down on the porch and headed back to the kitchen. The big brown box was there, filled with neat little stacks of crayon boxes, notepads, and a healthy clutter of glue sticks, rounded-point scissors, and mechanical pencils.
“It’s here. You’re already out and about?”
She’d been tiptoeing around all morning, trying not to wake Granny, not realizing she’d had the house to herself. Clearly being an early riser runs in the family.
“First day of the summer enrichment program at James Watkins Elementary, and we’ve got fifty-three kiddos set to arrive in less than an hour.” Granny sounded breathless. “Would you mind terribly? It’s the school way down on the outskirts, out toward Aberville. Should take you ten minutes. I’d come myself, but—”
“No problem, Granny. Just come in the main doors of the school?”
Rebecca hoisted the box onto a hip, her heels clicking briskly on the linoleum and then the wood floors and thin carpet as she walked through the small house and out to the porch again. The sun was already bright and unwavering, even at this early hour, and the birds had some sort of song competition going from the big oak tree in Granny’s front yard. The door slammed with a sharp bang.
“Yes, come to the admin office. You can’t miss it.”
It took less than ten minutes to navigate the quiet Dahlia streets and turn onto Aberville Road, and Rebecca noticed how the town changed as she drove. In Dahlia proper, the houses were bigger, with great expanses of lawn and forested areas in patches between the homes. Lawns were well manicured, and the houses themselves were those pretty old Southern masterpieces, the kind withdormers and big porches and lots of cleanly painted wood exteriors, usually a crisp white, though there was one pale pink at the corner of Elm and Main, and someone had done some creative colorscaping with the shutters of a house on Granny’s street. The maples and crape myrtles stretched out overhead like a soft green roof, and the drive soothed her, made her feel like she was somehow snuggled within the trees. Safe.
The houses got smaller as she drove, then closer together, the older homes replaced by some newer models and a few squat brick ranch styles. Out toward Aberville, the landscape changed markedly. Smaller houses gave way to well-tended trailers and cottages, then the not-so-well-kept. A handful of closed-down businesses, rusted fences, overgrown yards, and gutted concrete homes came next. One neat trailer stood in the middle of a shabby-looking street, the lawn trimmed back and a cheerful “welcome” sign with large yellow sunflowers posted at the front. Someone had kept up lush bushes at that house, and potted flowers lined the front steps.
But on either side of the house it was a different story—rundown, unkempt yards, and one shirtless man stood smoking a cigarette on his front porch and glared at her as she passed. A “condemned” sign with some yellow tape warned her to stay away from a house two doors down. The neat, well-kept house stood out like a sore thumb, made her sad. She wondered why the owners would bother to stay, why they didn’t sell and move to a classier neighborhood, where people seemed more like them. Then again, she wondered why anyone would stay in Dahlia, period. Little industry, lots of farms, a half-hour drive to the nearest small city—if you could call it a city. The so-called city had a mall, at least. Dahlia had, well, churches. And pretty old houses.
By the time she pulled into the parking lot of James Watkins Elementary and got to the front walk of the school, the heavy box of supplies was slipping, and she had to juggle it several timesto keep it from tumbling all the way to the ground. She couldn’t imagine how Granny might have done it on her own.
“Need some help?” a young male voice said, and she felt part of the weight taken from her. She couldn’t see her helper over the big cardboard sides, but together they carried it to the front door.
“Thanks,” she said, as he held open the door. They walked inside. “I’m going to the front office with this.”
“It’s this way, on the left,” the helper said, and she followed him down the spacious hall.
The woman at the counter, a pale-skinned lady with an enormous red belt and matching earrings, greeted her with a warm smile. “Helen’s granddaughter? You’re a dear.” She took the box, waved Rebecca on—“I’ll see she gets this. Keep up the good work at the newspaper!”—and disappeared down the hall.
Rebecca turned to her helper for the first time. “Thank you,” she began to say, and realized he was a kid. He had close-cropped hair, soft dark eyes rimmed with long lashes, and skin the shade of rich creamy coffee. In another few years he’d be a heartbreaker. “I appreciate the help.”
“You’re welcome,” he said and tilted his head, gave a small smile. There was something in his eyes, something about the quiet hunch of the shoulders that tugged at her.
“I’m Rebecca Chastain, but Ms. Chastain’s a mouthful. You can call me Becca.”
What in the world had motivated her to say Becca? She hated that name, went to great lengths to get all former friends, family, and acquaintances to stop using it, and now she was tossing it out like everyone called her that.
“I’m Devon Robinson.” He ducked his head and gave a shy little shrug. “Nice to meet you, Miss Becca.”
“My granny helps with the enrichment program here. I should probably go say hi. You know where it is?”
“I’ll walk with you.”
