Chapter 5
Addison shut the door to her room and leaned against it for several seconds before shuffling to the bed and flopping facedown. She was exhausted. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. Despite that, she was keyed up—wound so tight she might explode at any second. She needed some calm.
Rolling over, she stared up at the underside of the blue chintz-patterned canopy. That matched the blue chintz bedspread and pillow shams. And the blue chintz wallpaper. And the upholstered chair. Anything that wasn’t blue chintz was tatted lace. The bed-and-breakfast on Queen Street was in the heart of historic Charleston, only blocks from downtown and more affordable than the chain hotels nearby, but the décor was…over the top. There was no way she was going to find any calm in the midst of it.
Lifting one leg at a time, she unbuckled the straps of her wedges, flipping them off onto the floor. So what if they weren’t red-soled, black patent leather, four-inch, platform heels? They were cute and comfortable and suited her.
Pulling her phone from the inside pocket of her purse, she searched for yoga studios around her. The third link down pointed to a daily yoga session in the Battery. Addison checked the time on her phone—she had almost forty minutes before the class started. More than enough time to change and walk there.
In less than ten minutes, she had her yoga mat slung over her shoulder by the stretching strap she used to carry it and headed down the stairs to the foyer, fighting the urge to slide down the gleaming wood banister à la Mary Poppins every step of the way. She ran her hand over the polished wood and spotted Mrs. Little, the owner, sifting through envelopes at the desk. Maybe the day she checked out, after she’d paid the bill. That way she couldn’t kick her out.
“Headin’ anywhere excitin’?” Mrs. Little asked.
Addison stopped at the base of the stairs. “I found a yoga class in the Battery.”
“I remember when I was bendy. Good for you. There’s a nice café on the way back, on King Street, about two blocks north of the Battery.” In her soft, southern accent, it sounded like “Bat-tree.”
Being from Texas, Addison had worked hard to lose her drawl during college, but she would totally rock a southern accent if she could. How long would she have to live in the South before she developed one? Hopefully not as long as the Littles.
During her tour of the house, Mrs. Little had explained her family was new to Charleston, having only moved there in the nineteen-twenties. Apparently, anyone who hadn’t been living in the city when Sherman set fire to Atlanta was nothing but an interfering carpetbagger.
“Thanks, I’ll check it out on my way back,” Addison said.
“Enjoy your class.”
Addison pushed through the screen door to the covered porch, and it struck her again how idyllic the house was. Overflowing flower baskets hung across the front of the porch between white columns. A tall live oak provided shade for most of the side yard, where a large fountain trickled a steady stream of water over the lip of the upper basin.
It was picture perfect, and she wanted to smash it all into jagged little pieces.
Leaving through the wrought iron gate, she turned left before crossing at the corner and followed King Street south, dodging around clusters of people who obviously had nowhere pressing to be, judging by their meandering pace.
Her phone vibrated against her thigh, and she pulled it out of the slim pocket of her yoga pants. Wincing, she pressed the green button and put the phone to her ear.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, honey.” She sounded weary. Not just tired, but worn down, dejected—all the words that could be used to describe a mother coping with the loss of her only son.
Addison’s heart ached to tell her mother the truth. To give her some sense of hope that Braedon was alive, but she couldn’t handle the same argument they’d been having since her return from Iraq, even though she now had proof.
“Where are you?” her mother asked.
“I’m in Charleston,” she said.
“West Virginia?”
“South Carolina, Mom.”
“Oh. What are you doing there?”
“A friend invited me to visit for a few days.”
“That sounds nice.” Her mom sounded distracted. “When are you coming home?”
Addison stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change, and rubbed the center of her forehead. “I don’t know, Mom. I need to figure some things out. I’m going to look into a potential job with some companies my friend recommended.”
She hated lying to her mom, but she also didn’t want to tell her the truth. She couldn’t go home—especially not now. She couldn’t be around them as they wallowed in the loss of Braedon while she knew he was alive.
“We really need you home, Addison,” her mom whispered.
