Linda Goodnight – The Memory House (страница 2)
“The Child is father of the Man…”
—William Wordsworth
Nashville, Tennessee
Present Day
Freedom was its own kind of prison.
These were the thoughts of Eli Donovan as he scraped drywall mud from his elbow and watched a familiar bronze Buick pull to the curb outside the remodel. With a tug in his gut, Eli tossed the trowel to the ground and straightened. What had he done now?
A man stepped out of the Buick and adjusted his blue tie before squinting toward the house. Their eyes met, held for a fraction of a second until Eli looked down. Once upon a time he would have challenged anyone in a staring contest. Hard time and maturity had changed him. He didn’t want to fight anyone anymore. Certainly not his parole officer.
Saying nothing, Eli started across the greening lawn, past the scattered remains of lumber and construction junk. He was no longer arrogant and proud, but the jitter in his belly shamed him just the same.
“Eli.” Mr. Clifford spoke first, broke the impasse. “How’s it going?”
“Fine.” He stopped two feet from the fortysomething officer of the court, taking in the slight sheen of sweat on the other man’s balding head. Anxious, afraid of tripping himself up, he waited for Clifford to speak his business.
“I had a phone call this morning.”
Still Eli waited, not knowing what to ask or say. If he misspoke, Clifford would get the wrong idea or ask questions Eli couldn’t answer. There were always questions.
The parole officer pulled a paper from his pocket and pushed it toward him. “A woman name of Opal Kimble tracked you down through the warden. She wants to talk to you. Says she has something urgent to discuss. Mentioned the name Mindy.”
Eli stared at the yellow Post-it note, the dread deepening. He licked dry lips, tasted drywall mud. “Mindy?”
“Is there anything I need to know? If you’re into something—”
Eli interrupted. “I’m not. Mindy is an old friend. Did Opal say anything else?”
“No, she just left that number and insisted I contact you. I thought it might be important.”
“Doubtful.” Mindy was a sweet soul. She probably felt sorry for him and wanted to be sure he was all right. He refused to consider the other issue, certain she was better off not hearing from him.
“You could use a friend.”
The comment took Eli aback. In the six months he’d known Pete Clifford, the man had shown him nothing but suspicion, as if he couldn’t wait for the ex-con to step out of line so he could send him back to that stinking rat hole.
“I’m all right.”
“Do you have a phone yet?”
“No.”
Clifford extracted his from a belt holster. “Call her.”
Eli considered only a moment before accepting the offer. No point in riling the man. He could make a call to an old woman he’d never met. Find out what she wanted and then get back to work. He needed the payday.
He took a moment to study the fancy cell phone. A lot had changed since he’d been gone. Technology marched on, as they said, and left the caged behind.
As he tapped in the numbers Eli was gratified when Clifford turned toward his vehicle. “I’ll give you a minute.”
“Thanks.” The word was gravel on Eli’s tongue but he was grateful. He didn’t take acts of kindness lightly.
A woman’s voice, stronger than he’d expected from the aunt Mindy had described as ancient, answered the call.
“Miss Kimble? Eli Donovan.”
“About time you called, boy.”
Her tone stiffened his spine but he remained silent. He focused elsewhere, as he’d learned to do in the difficult moments inside the big house, letting her talk while he only half listened. A pair of courting bluebirds caught Eli’s eye as they dipped and flirted. He smiled a little, though the action felt stiff and unfamiliar. Since his release, he’d been mesmerized by nature. The rising sun, a fluttering butterfly, a dog sniffing tires. Nature brought a peace, a rightness to his tumultuous soul. In his despair and self-pity, he’d forgotten those simple gifts he’d once taken for granted.
In his ear, Opal said something that captured his attention. He tuned back in. “What did you say?”
“I said, Mindy left some things for you and I want you to come get them.”
He frowned toward the horizon where a single gray cloud hovered like a promise of trouble. “Left things? Isn’t she there?”
A beat of silence pulsed in his ear, tightened the knot in his chest.
When Opal spoke again, her tone softened. “I thought you knew. Mindy’s gone.”
“Gone where?” Not that he’d follow or make contact, but the woman was confusing him.
“Gone for good, Eli.” Opal’s voice cracked. “Mindy died.”
Peach Orchard Inn
Present Day
She’d kissed him goodbye that last morning. Julia was sure she had. Wasn’t she? The action had been so ingrained in routine. Grab the backpack, stick the lunch box in his hand and kiss him, quick and sweet, before he galloped to the bus stop. She’d watched him get on the bus. She always did, though afterward she’d second-guessed a thousand times. If she’d driven him to school, or if she’d kept him home, because hadn’t he been a sleepyhead that last wonderful, terrible morning?
Six years had passed and yet the horror and grief never left. It was the not knowing that drove Julia Presley quietly mad. In those moments of solitude, especially right before sleep and like now, upon waking, the thoughts would come in rapid-fire succession before she had a chance to block them. She’d become adept at blocking.
Most days she survived and some days she even thrived. But days like today were the worst. Michael’s birthday. He was still alive. She had to believe that. Yet, wondering who had him and what was happening or had happened was too hard to bear. But bear it she did, for what choice did she have? Someday, somewhere, someone would spot him in a crowd or he would simply walk free of his captors and come home. Such miracles still happened, and those children once lost but now found gave Julia hope.
He would be fourteen today, no longer the wide-eyed little boy who hated baths and adored mud puddles. Was he tall and loose limbed like his father, and wouldn’t he be heartbroken to know his mom and dad had unraveled within a year without him? That he was the glue holding their ragged marriage together and that in his absence, they’d been unable to comfort each other? They’d laid blame where none was due, such a stupid reaction to a heinous crime. The only person at fault was the evil being who’d snatched a happy little boy from a peaceful town where nothing bad ever happened. And yet, she felt responsible. Mikey was, after all, her child to guard and guide and she’d failed in that essential role of motherhood.
Dragging herself from beneath the ice-blue duvet, Julia reached first for the iPad on the nightstand. With a poke of a finger, she tapped open the Facebook page where Mikey’s bright eight-year-old face smiled out at her next to a computer-aged photo. Would he really look like this today?
She trolled the comments, saw the handful of birthday wishes and closed the program with a sigh. No news. No sightings. Just like every day since she’d started the page with the help of a support group. Other mothers who waited for their children to come home. Most days she didn’t visit the forums for idle conversation. They depressed her, and Lord knew she couldn’t go back down that dark tunnel again.
With a breathed plea for strength to get through another day, Julia dressed and dabbed makeup on the shadowy half-moons beneath her eyes. Though dawn had yet to break, she had to get up and get moving. She had guests to attend, breakfast to cook and a myriad other tasks to address. Keeping busy was important, soothing therapy. Culinary therapy, she termed her cooking obsession. If she worked herself into exhaustion, she could sleep without the oppressive dreams.
She was thankful every day for the rather inexplicable purchase four years ago of Peach Orchard Inn, this big, old oddity of a Southern mansion, now a guesthouse. There was something benevolent about the two-story structure that had survived a Civil War and the century and a half since. The day Valery had dragged her out here “just to look,” the house had wrapped itself around her like a warm hug. Though cobwebs and dust had covered everything, her heart had leaped. For the first time in months—years—she’d felt something other than despair. This wonderful old bed-and-breakfast had, quite literally, saved her sanity. She’d yet to understand why. It simply had.
She’d clung to her former home on Sage Street—Mikey’s home—too long, fearing her son would return and find her gone, but she was dying there. Depressed, barely able to get out of bed each morning, and some days she didn’t get up at all. Since a dead mother was not what she wanted her son to come home to, at her family’s urging Julia had sold the modern brick home and moved into a piece of history sorely in need of restoration. In that way, she and the house were the same.