Somewhere Between Luck and Trust (10 page)

Chapter Eleven

BY SATURDAY JACKSON
hadn’t returned. Cristy still didn’t feel secure—she wasn’t sure she would ever feel secure again—but she had stopped jumping at every noise. Each evening since his visit she had checked windows and doors to the point of obsession, and now she slept on the sofa in the living room, where she would know immediately if someone tried to break in.

Despite her fear she was praying that, having delivered his message, Jackson was confident he had scared her into both submission and silence. Also, if Sully really had warned him to leave her alone, Jackson would know the deputy had his eye on the situation, making it more difficult to come after her.

The rain had slowed on Tuesday, and by Wednesday she had ventured out for her first walk alone. As a child she had been fearless, escaping the parsonage as often as possible to explore the streets and fields of Berle. In those days she had always trusted her ability to find her way home, but now she had to force herself to range a little farther every day. She kept busy on the walks gathering interesting dried weeds and grasses, using stem cutters Betsy’s daughter had sent, and arranging the cuttings in a motley assortment of vases and pots.

On Friday she managed to pull her car out of the barn and drive a few miles on the rural road, the smooth pull of the steering wheel under her hands a reminder of Jackson.

The first time she had met the man who’d almost destroyed her, she had been visiting his father’s “pre-owned” car dealership. Pinckney Motors was a rite of passage for Berle teenagers, an expansive lot just outside the city limits where everyone went to buy their first car.

Cristy’s first had come years later than most. Passing the written driver’s test had been a significant hurdle, which she had finally surmounted by asking for an oral one, despite a realistic fear that the word would get out. The next hurdle had been saving enough money to buy a car outright, since once she quit school her parents had washed their hands of her, and she had no credit to get a loan. She was almost twenty-one before she managed to save enough to buy something reliable. Until then she had used Betsy’s delivery van, but buying her own car? That was a dream come true.

The minute she stepped onto the lot, one of the older salesmen grabbed her to extoll the virtues of every car in her meager price range, none of which had looked like a good bet to her. Then he fell silent, and she looked up to discover that a younger man had waved him away.

The new man, with a blinding white smile and eyes so dark the pupils were lost, was Jackson Ford, son of Pinckney, who owned not only the car lot, but the General Motors dealership, the Buy-Now Supermarket, the two Laundromats that flanked a four-block stretch of Main Street, and the road construction company that got the contract for every stretch of asphalt in the county. Jackson had been just old enough that Cristy hadn’t known him at school, and after graduation he had gone away to college before dropping out a few years later to give professional baseball a try.

Immediately she realized that Jackson was planning to sell her more than a car. He listened to her requirements with respect and interest, asked about her preferences for foreign or domestic, automatic or stick shift, and somehow, as they discussed cars, he discovered everything that was most important about her.

By the time Cristy went home that day, she had promises that the late-model Subaru she liked would be hers, and that when she picked it up, every dent, speck of rust and rattle under the hood would be gone.

She was only able to afford the car because Jackson nonchalantly slashed the price by a third.

He had been as good as his word, and once the papers had been signed, he had taken her out on the town to celebrate. By the end of the next week he had taken her to bed.

While she was in prison, Cristy had fully expected the car to be towed back to Pinckney Motors due to some technicality. When it came right down to it, she had no idea what she’d signed that Friday evening in Jackson’s office. Betsy had offered to come with her, but Cristy hadn’t wanted to be embarrassed in front of a man she’d already begun to dream about, so she’d bravely—foolishly—signed the papers without reading a word, and hoped for the best.

Apparently the papers, at least, had been bona fide. The man himself had been a different matter.

The car was still in surprisingly good shape, thanks to Betsy’s daughter, who had parked it behind her own house and driven it weekly to make sure it continued to run. Cristy just wondered if she would think about Jackson and the real price she had paid every time she got behind the wheel.

By Saturday midmorning the weather had cleared and warmed enough that she dragged the cushions back to the porch and took a glass of lemonade to the glider to make plans. She couldn’t continue this way. She needed to see her son. She needed to find both a way to support herself and a place to live that didn’t depend on the goodwill of others. Her mental list was short but depressing. Even now that she’d proved she could drive again, she couldn’t make herself call Berdine and set up a visit. And supporting herself and finding another place to live seemed as far away as the moon.

An hour later she was still trying to figure out a first step when she saw a car snaking its way up the steep drive toward the house. She didn’t know what Jackson was driving these days. He had access to almost any car at his father’s dealership and liked to switch often, but she imagined that this one, a dated and inexpensive sedan, had never been on his wish list.

Even knowing that, she was relieved when a woman emerged a minute later and began the climb. She was lovely and young, although as she drew closer, Cristy could see perhaps not as young as she’d assumed. Thirties, probably, dark-haired and slender in a simple green dress, with a smile she aimed at Cristy now that she’d almost reached the porch.

“I’m Analiese Wagner,” she said, as if she understood Cristy needed to know that right up front. “I’m another of the trustees. Most people call me Ana, and you must be Cristy.”

Samantha had given Cristy a brief description of each of the “goddesses” who were responsible for the decisions made here. Cristy had yet to meet Taylor, the daughter of Charlotte Hale, whose family home this had been. The only other woman she hadn’t met was Charlotte’s minister, and while the woman’s relative youth was a surprise, her appearance at the house was not.

Cristy had been half waiting for the minister to show up and insist she confess her sins and beg for forgiveness.

Despite a surge of distaste she knew something was expected of her; after all, this was one of the women who had reached out to help her. She nodded politely and held up her glass. “May I get you something to drink? I’m drinking powdered lemonade.”

“Not a thing.” Analiese joined her on the glider. “I had an unexpected break in my schedule, so I thought I’d pop up to meet you. Yesterday was Georgia’s birthday.” She paused. “We’re bombarding you with new faces. Do you remember which one of us is Georgia?”

Cristy tried not to be offended. “Yes, of course.”

“Her daughter threw a surprise party last night. A bunch of us showed up after dinner for cake and ice cream. It was pretty last-minute, but Sam hoped you could come down for the festivities. I guess she tried to get you by phone, but you weren’t answering. She’s a little worried.”

Cristy felt a stab of guilt. The telephone had rung yesterday—several times, in fact. But fearing that Jackson had gotten the number, or even Berdine or Clara, she hadn’t answered.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last. “I... Well, it just didn’t occur to me it might be Samantha.”

Analiese drew a pillow behind her back and kicked off black flats with a thin gold band around the top. “I’ve been known to avoid phone calls if I’m afraid somebody I don’t want to talk to is on the other end of the line.”

Cristy was sorry to see the other woman making herself so comfortable. “I’m fine. Really. Nobody has to worry.”

“Well, it’s pretty isolated up here. We’re all a little worried about that.”

Cristy had no intention of telling anyone about Jackson’s visit. She was afraid they might ask her to leave. “I have plans to start getting out a little. I need to find work, if I can.”

“That won’t be easy here.”

“I have a car. I can drive anywhere I need to.”

If Analiese still thought things were going to be tough, she didn’t say so. “What would you like to do? Sam said you were a florist, and a darned good one.”

“How would she know?”

“I think she said she talked to the daughter of the woman you worked for. She told Sam her mother thought you were the most talented floral arranger she had ever run across, miles better than she was, and her daughter agreed.” Analiese looked at her directly. “Even though the business part was difficult for you.”

Heat suffused Cristy’s cheeks. “Not all of it.”

Analiese seemed to be waiting for her to go on, but Cristy wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. And what would Analiese do, anyway? Pray that God would give her a brain, like the one the Wizard of Oz had given the Scarecrow?

“I wish there was a way to capitalize on your talents around here,” Analiese said instead.

“I can wait tables. I can clean houses.”

“I’m sorry Asheville is such a crazy drive. You could probably find something more fun if you lived down there. But I know you want to be closer to your son.”

Cristy reminded herself that the trustees had learned everything about her past before they’d invited her to live here, but she wondered if she had been the subject of conversation last night at the party.

Analiese seemed to sense her discomfort. “We don’t want to interfere, Cristy. Please know that. We just want to lend a hand if you need one.”

“Thank you for giving me a place to stay,” Cristy said formally.

“Is it lonely out here? I like the silence when I’m up here by myself, at least for a while. I don’t get much silence. I’ve come up for the night a couple of times. Just to see if there’s anybody home.”

Cristy had no idea what she meant, and apparently her expression showed it.

“In here,” Analiese said, laying her hand over her heart. “It’s easy to forget who we are inside when we’re so busy with outside things.”

“I know who I am inside,” Cristy said.

“Somebody’s who’s been through too much pain,” Analiese said, as if she were answering a question.

Cristy waited for the next part, the part her father would surely have jumped in with. The part where she was asked to confess all her sins, starting with how she had refused time and time again to make something out of herself.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Analiese said, slipping her shoes back on. “I’ll call Sam and tell her. I do have an idea, though. Would you be okay answering the telephone if you knew the call was from one of us?”

“Us?”

“The trustees.”

“The goddesses,” Cristy said, because to her they felt like goddesses bestowing favors—somewhat haphazardly.

Analiese gave a low laugh. “We’re all a long way from that, but we don’t mind the name.”

“How would I know?”

“Know who was on the phone? How about if we ring once, hang up, then call back. Maybe that way you’ll feel safer picking up.”

Cristy wondered how this woman knew she didn’t feel safe. But of course, what other reason would she have for not answering?

“I’ll be sure to answer if you do that,” she said.

“You don’t know me at all. You have no reason to trust me and maybe more reasons than most people not to. I know your father’s a pastor, and you’re not close to him.”

“Everybody seems to know everything about me.”

“Not what’s in your heart. I just want you to know that if you feel like talking about anything, you can give me a call.” She reached for her purse and pulled a business card out of her wallet, handing it to Cristy. “And you don’t need to worry whether I’ll share anything you say with the others. I won’t.”

Cristy knew something was expected. She managed the curtest of nods.

Analiese smiled, then got to her feet. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t trust me, either. But keep the card and don’t toss it, okay? Just in case you’d like a different take on love and forgiveness than the one you probably grew up with.”

“Oh, my father believed in love and forgiveness, just not for screwups like me.”

Analiese wasn’t smiling now. “You deserved better, Cristy.”

“How would you know?”

“Because everybody deserves better. We’re all screwups.”

* * *

After Analiese left, Cristy made herself a peanut butter sandwich with the remaining two slices of bread. This afternoon she would drive to the general store and buy another loaf, but the empty bread wrapper reminded her of the importance of finding a job, and that reminded her that the chances she could support herself here were zero to none. She would ask at the store. Maybe they needed somebody to clean or stock shelves, although there were few to stock. The café portion at the far end was only open for part of the week, but wasn’t it possible they might need her to wash dishes or wait tables?

As she finished the last bite, she tried to decide whether to wear one of her new outfits, which fit well but might be too casual, or a skirt and blouse from her pre-prison life, which she would need to cinch tighter with a belt. She hadn’t made any decisions when she saw another woman coming toward the house. Only this one hadn’t driven. She was walking from the direction of the garden.

Cristy wasn’t frightened but she
was
curious. The woman had gray hair pulled into a thin knot at the top of her head, weathered skin and a body that testified to good country cooking. As she drew closer, Cristy realized she was barefoot.

“I’m Zettie Johnston,” she called, before she got to the porch. “Live over yonder.” She swept her hand in the direction she’d come. “Me and Bill, we’re your closest neighbors. About time I got over here to say hello, but I been getting my spring garden ready. Got most everything in now. Planted potatoes on Saint Patrick’s Day and that was the end of it. But I got mud all over my shoes, so I left them behind.”