He ran to his room, his little feet pounding on the hardwood.
Mr. Dean will be thrilled.
“Too bad, you grumpy old man,” I muttered, grabbing a box of books near the built-in bookshelves. They flanked a gorgeous brick and stone fireplace, which I supposed was just ornamental at this point. Just as well. The air was thick and humid, making my clothes cling to me even with the air conditioning unit running full blast. There was no way in hell I was going to think about a fire in the fireplace anytime soon.
Still rattled by the mysterious woman—and by the darkly handsome Mr. Proffitt—I focused my attention on unpacking.
As I arranged my books among those the previous tenant had left behind, I handled each one lovingly, running my fingertips over the covers and spines, a sense of peace coming over me. Books had been my lifeline during my childhood and certainly still were. I’d read everything I could get my hands on, making weekly trips to whatever library was close by. And this precious collection was a variety of titles from classics to science fiction to romance to poetry—books I’d bought at garage sales, library sales, thrift stores…wherever I could find them and whenever I’d had a couple of bucks to spare. A few had been gifts from Vivian when she remembered to get me a present for my birthday or Christmas—sweet, wholesome titles that “wouldn’t corrupt the soul.”
I lifted out my children’s Bible and flipped through the pages, shaking my head at the melodramatic illustrations of Noah’s ark with a rainbow arching over it, blinded Sampson using the last of his strength to destroy his enemies and himself in the process, a very Euro-Jesus in long robes speaking to a group of wide-eyed children gathered around him.
I set it on the shelf and picked up my other Bible, a gift from Pastor Ted, the preacher my mom had zealously followed for a while during her Protestant phase when I was a pre-teen. Ted had liked to hug me a little too much, but Vivian had hung on his every word, never questioning a thing he said. Even at that age, I’d suspected that Vivian had been having an affair with the supposed man of God and pillar of the community during their private Bible study sessions.
I wasn’t sure why I’d kept the Bible all these years, except that it was a book and I kept them all. And maybe because it was a reminder of how Iwasn’tgoing to live my life, sleeping with people to get something out of them, and then moving on, ignoring what was going on with my own kid instead of facing uncomfortable truths.
When I finished unpacking the books, I went to the kitchen to put away the little bit of food I’d brought with us—mostly cereal and snacks for Henry. There’d been no way to bring perishables, so we’d finished off the last of the milk and yogurt that morning before setting out to Savannah. I’d have to get to the market yet that day—a prospect that always induced soul-killing anxiety.
I pulled up my banking app to check my balance and did a few quick calculations in my head to figure out how much would be left after buying what we needed. A familiar sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach sunk a little deeper than usual. I’d been paid my last check at the coffee shop, plus a little extra for my unused vacation time, so I would have enough for a week or two, barring any emergencies. But it wouldn’t last long.
The light pounding of tiny feet running on the hardwood in the living room drew me out of my thoughts. I called over my shoulder, “Henry, baby, please don’t run! You’ll disturb our neighbor, Mr. Dean.”
Instead of answering, he ran across the room again, giggling.
“Henry James Dupont!” I scolded. “What did I say?”
When he just giggled again in response, I huffed and strode into the living room, hands on my hips. “Youngman—”
But the room was empty.
Frowning, I glanced under the credenza, behind the couch, to make sure my mischievous five-year-old wasn’t hiding from me, determined to scare me again. But he was nowhere to be found.
“Henry?” I called as I headed toward the bedroom. “Where are you, baby?”
When he still didn’t answer, my chest grew tight with panic.
“Henry!”
“Yes, ma’am?” he said, coming out of the bathroom. “I was going potty. And there are more toys in the bathroom! Do you want to see?”
I stared at him, baffled. If he’d been in the bathroom, then who’d been running around the living room and giggling?
“Um, sure,” I said with a shake of my head and a forced smile. “The people who lived here before left a lot of cool stuff, didn’t they?”
“Yes, ma’am!” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the bathroom. He pointed to a basket of tub toys and foam letters that would stick to the side of the tub when wet. “Look, I can spell my words when I take a bath. And there are little boats and alligators and squirty fish!”
I couldn’t help smiling at Henry’s excitement. I’d bought him a few bath toys at the dollar store, but these were much nicer than what I’d been able to afford. There were even waterproof books we could read together while I was giving him a bath.
But as grateful as I was for the things the previous family had left behind, it somehow seemed wrong to use them. What if they came back? What if they wanted to get all the stuff they’d left behind? What was I going to tell Henry?
Sorry, baby, I’d love to buy you toys, but…
No. I’d figure it out if they ever came back. No sense borrowing trouble. I’d done everything I could to shield Henry from the knowledge of just how tight money was, and I’d continue to do so however I had to. And when I finished myclasses and got my degree, I’d get a good job and a better place to live and toys that didn’t fall apart after a few weeks.
A loud clatter made us both jump and turn toward the bathtub. A plastic shelf that had held soap and a couple of bottles of shampoo had fallen from the wall, scattering its contents across the bottom of the tub.
“What the heck!” Henry cried.
“Careful, mister,” I said, tousling his curls.
