Does Lo know?
That had been my first question to August, after the denials sputtered out, after my lips, numb with shock, could finally make sounds again.
I’m not sure, he’d replied, but his eyes had been almost feverishly bright as he’d said,But if she did… Geneva, if Lo found out that Landon had also been seeing Ellen, that he’d gotten Ellenpregnant…
He didn’t have to finish the thought.
The motive they’d assigned Lo at her trial—that she was on the verge of being dumped and refused to take it—hadn’t managed to hold much water. But what if she had learned that her lover, the man she was depending on, had simultaneously been carrying on with one of her closest friends? Was, in fact, having ababywith that friend?
Suddenly, murder might make a lot more sense.
I haven’t seen Lo since yesterday morning. I figure she’s giving me a wide berth after our tense moment in the lobby, and I’m grateful for it because I can’t be sure that I won’t start throwing questions—accusations—at her like they were grenades.
But at the same time, as I reminded August yesterday, it’s just a picture. A picture isn’t proof. The likeness is eerie, though, I admit that, and when August and I looked at the dates—when my parents got married, when Landon died, when I was born—they lined up. Landon was dead by August 5. Mom and Dad were engaged later that month, married by September, and I was born March 3.
“Which would’ve meant you were conceived in late May, early June,” August had said, stacking his hands on top of his head as he gazed into the middle distance. “If we can find out if Landon was here around that time…”
That’s when I’d bailed.
It was too much to process, and I could see that August’s journalist brain was already whirring, the book morphing as a new narrative began taking shape in his head.
The book.
Another land mine exploding under my feet. If August was right, this revelation would be going into a book. This sordid secret that my mother had kept for years, not even revealing to her own flesh and blood, would be something strangers would read about on planes and in waiting rooms, or listen to while walking on treadmills, and they’d judge her—they’d judgeus—and think what trashy people we were. Sure, it might mean more people came to the inn, but it would only be so that they could judge in person.
Those were the thoughts that circled my brain last night, round and round, keeping sleep far away until I’d finally gotten up, determined to look through Mom’s clippings again only toremember I’d given them to August, which had started all of… this.
He wasn’t around this morning, and by the time I’ve checked out the last guest, my skin is nearly itching with the desire to get out of the inn.
I go visit Edie first, but there’s little change. It’ll be a few more days before they can start bringing her out of the coma, and I get to see her for only a few minutes at a time, squeezing her chilled hand, telling her the weather is fine and there’s nothing to worry about, even as a TV in the corner of the ICU waiting room scrolls a banner saying Tropical Storm Lizzie has officially been upgraded to a hurricane.
On the drive to Hope House, I pass the big Walmart and see people bringing out cases of bottled water, mountains of toilet paper, and I grip the steering wheel a little tighter.
There’s little change at Hope House, either, but that’s always how it is. Like the whole place is frozen under glass and starts up again only when someone visits.
Mom is sitting in her usual spot, her recliner turned toward the windows, and I pause before I walk into the room, looking at the back of her head.
The truth is in there, somewhere, under that fall of silvering dark hair, but her disease means that she might as well be a locked vault. The unfairness of it all washes over me every time I’m here, but this time, there’s a sharper edge to it, honed by desperation.
Just five minutes. Just give me five minutes with her so she can tell me what happened that summer. Who I am, whoshewas, because I’m not sure I know anymore.
I move into her room, cross over to her chair, and crouch down in front of it.
Her eyes look through me, her lips slightly parted. “Mom,”I say softly. “Why didn’t you tell me? About Landon Fitzroy. I understand why you couldn’t when I was younger, but after Dad was gone. When I was an adult… I would’ve understood. Or I want to think I would have. And I wish you had trusted me with it. I wish…”
Too many things, really, and none of them are going to come true.
“Everything okay in here?”
I look past Mom to see Opal, my favorite nurse, standing in the doorway, a plastic pitcher in hand.
“Yes,” I say, then can’t help a bitter laugh. “I mean, no, but—”
“I get you, honey,” Opal says, her eyes kind. “And don’t you worry about this storm they say might be headed our way. Our director, Ms. Diane, lived through Marie back in eighty-four, and she takes evacuation orders seriously. If it gets bad, we’ll get your mama somewhere safe.”
Guilt stabs low and deep that I hadn’t even been thinking about the storm, what they might need to do with Mom, but I nod at Opal and thank her.
Rising to my feet, my knees protesting, I sigh and lean down to kiss Mom’s temple. “I love you. I miss you,” I tell her, just like always, but this time, I lean in a little closer and murmur, “And I know whatever lies you told or secrets you kept, you had a good reason.”
