“That’s a good sign,” Brando said, not really being helpful. “You want to meet him before we shock him to death.”
Emory released a string of French profanities and then started to pray. I gave Brando a mean look and he smiled.
“Well, hello,” Old Emory said, swinging the door wide. He wore a crisp button-down shirt underneath his new overalls. A medley of delightful smells—roses, lemon, and seasoned, boiled shrimp—wafted from the door on a breath of cool air.
“Scarlett!” He pulled me forward, taking my hand in his. “How have you been?”
“Good, Mr. Snow.” I looked back at Brando and then back at him. “Better than good actually.”
His watery blue eyes shone bright, a smile on his face. “You see, not all stories will have the same ending.”
We stared at each for a moment before he shook his head, his eyes moving to Young Emory. He studied him for a second before he invited us all in, giving us no chance for introductions. He waved his hand as he moved, a small white and brown terrier sniffing at our heels.
“I can’t remember if I ever thanked you for bringing the rose petals to Àstrid. You see—” he opened the back door to his house, to a patio set into an impressive rose garden “—I get them all from my garden.”
It was like an explosion of roses had gone off. All different types of roses of all different colors had plumped with the heat, basking in it, spritzing the area with their natural perfume.
We each took a seat at the table he had set on the patio. Lemonade had been set out, along with fruits and a few different types of dips, one made with shrimp, another with fresh vegetables.
“Marjorie, a good friend, she did all of this.” He motioned to the spread. “If you, uh, must know. It was a bribe.”
As I poured each of us a drink, I smiled. “What kind of bribe?”
“She runs the social club, we’ll call it. Thank you.” He lifted his glass to me after I filled his cup. Taking a sip, he sighed. “Somehow she found out that you were coming by.” He fiddled with his napkin a bit. “I might have mentioned it in passing. I am so proud of you, you know.”
“You are?”
“Of course. You—” Old Emory swallowed hard. “Well, anyway, the club is holding their annual fundraiser soon. And she wanted me to ask you to, ah, sign some things for the auction.”
“Me?” The glass stilled at my lips.
He chuckled, looking at Brando. “She’s modest. That’s a good trait in a woman.”
Brando had to hold the drink he had just taken in. Then he started choking.
Serves you right.
“If you would prefer not to—” Old Emory started.
“No,” I said, “I’ll do it for you.”
He thanked me, and then the table settled into quiet. Old Emory’s gaze found Emory’s, and the two men stared at each other. Their eyes were like two reflections from the same pond. “And who do we have here?”
It was decided on the way over that I would be the one to do the talking, since I was the one who uncovered the secrets, or what we thought to be secrets. None of us really had any idea the sort of territory we were roaming into.
“Mr. Snow, remember when I took the rose petals to Àstrid for you?”
“Yes.”
I dug in my purse, pulling out a black and white photo. I set it on the table, took a deep breath, and slid it across to him. He looked down at the photo narrowly. The photo was of her headstone, including the inscription about her being a mother.
“Yes,” he said again.
“The thing is…” I swallowed hard, and Brando gave me his hand. I really thought Emory needed a hand, seeing as he looked as pale as a ghost out in ninety-degree heat, but I pushed on. “It says on her headstone that she was a mother.”
“Yes,” he said, running his arthritic fingers across the photo. “She had my child.”
If the stadium had been filled with guests, a collective gasp would have been had then. Seeing as it was only the four of us, silence took its place.
