Somewhere Between Luck and Trust (18 page)

Chapter Twenty

CRISTY HADN’T REALIZED
how out of shape she had become in prison. Between depression and the pregnancy, she hadn’t made much attempt to exercise. She had walked around the prison grounds when she could, but she had always been mindful not to get close to the small groups that formed, and just as mindful not to get so far away that she could be separated from the pack by the more predatory inmates, like a gazelle cut from its herd by a pack of hyenas.

Now, three weeks after Georgia had begun tutoring her, Cristy realized she was growing stronger in every way. Zettie and Bill had gone to Tennessee to visit a sick grandchild, and in the rush they hadn’t found anyone to till for her. But she still worked in the garden for hours, with only short breaks. Doing so had given her strength and a sense of purpose, as had her work at the Mountain Mist.

She was making progress on reading, practicing for long hours. She liked the way Georgia’s lessons built on the things she had already learned and didn’t leave her floundering. She still had a million miles to go, but just yesterday she had managed to sound out three of the words on the kitchen wall. Of course, she’d had to guess at some of them, but she thought she was probably right, since what she guessed made sense. Guessing was probably always a part of reading, and now she was just like everybody else. Only further behind.

Love. Kindness. Joy.

Beautiful words. She stared at them each morning and evening, imprinting their shapes, if not yet their messages, in her head.

The work at the Mountain Mist was turning out to be more fun than she had anticipated, too. Last week Lorna had arrived with an armload of flowers she’d bought in Asheville and told Cristy to enjoy herself. She had, too. She hadn’t seen that many fresh flowers in a long time, and she’d almost cried at the scent, the variety and profusion of color. She had finished her work first, then she had spent one of the happiest hours of her recent life choosing vases, running her roughened palms along stems and leaves, and assembling bouquets and arrangements.

Lorna had been delighted with the results, but not as delighted as Cristy. Every day since, Cristy had tended the flowers, trimming ends, changing water, rearranging. Life was returning to fingers that had ached to create, and back at home she had begun sketching again.

Even her morning trips to the Mountain Mist were a bonus. She drove the scenic miles slowly, watching for deer near the road and hawks scouting for breakfast from low-lying branches. Smoke curled from chimneys, and sometimes clouds of fog crawled along hollows like ghosts of the Cherokee, or the hardy Scots-Irish, who had found the Blue Ridge so reminiscent of home they had moved in and bequeathed custom and song to their descendants.

Her mother’s family had lived in these mountains for generations, scattered from Georgia to Tennessee, but Berdine, her mother’s younger cousin, was one of the few McNabbs Cristy had actually known, and only because Berdine had spent summers babysitting for Cristy and Clara. Candy Haviland had not been proud of her heritage, and she had distanced herself from everything Blue Ridge, despite settling right in the heart of it when her husband accepted his call to Berle Memorial.

The townships of Luck and Trust, tiny pinpoints on the map, were nothing like Berle. The closest town was Hot Springs, fifteen miles away along winding roads, and little more than a scenic stop off the Appalachian Trail. The closest chain grocery store was in Marshall, about twenty-two miles away over more winding roads. Asheville, with its culture and shopping, was thirty miles and took most of an hour to reach.

There was nothing here but clean air, mountain vistas and families whose roots were sunk so deep in the mineral-rich topsoil they would never be happy anywhere else.

This morning she was looking forward to the trip to the B and B. She had made a sketch of one of the peacocks, a rascal bird named Guilfoyle. Guilfoyle had taken up with one of the chickens, or at least that was what it looked like to Cristy. She had done a quick sketch of the peacock spreading his tail feathers for the bored little hen. At home she had played with the idea, using a pad of good paper, charcoal and chalk pencils Georgia had left for her, a gift from Analiese.

Lorna would probably enjoy her drawing of Guilfoyle, and she was looking forward to giving it to her. She packed it carefully in a folder so it wouldn’t get wrinkled and went upstairs to finish getting ready for work.

A few minutes later she was coming down the steps, shoes in hand, when the telephone rang. She answered all calls now, since Lorna might need to get ahold of her. She picked up the receiver and hopped on one foot while she slipped a tennis shoe on the other.

“Cristy?”

Cristy closed her eyes and sat down. This phone call had been a long time coming. “Hello, Clara.”

“I had to get your number from Berdine. You couldn’t tell me where you were?”

“You knew I was okay. After all, you bullied Jim Sullivan into coming out here to find me. Besides, it’s been a while since I gave Berdine the number. She’s called me a couple of times since and you haven’t called at all.”

“I’ve been in Honduras on an emergency mission trip—I didn’t even have time to tell Berdine. I’ve been way back in the jungle where they didn’t exactly have phones in every house.”

Candy Haviland had gone on mission trips, too—more, Cristy suspected, to get away from her imperfect daughters than out of any deep-seated desire to make the world a better place.

Cristy hadn’t been the only disappointment in the family. While Clara and Cristy were very different, neither of them had pleased their parents. Clara had been a straight-A student, but she was at best plain, a sharp contrast to their lovely mother. Clara had always been overweight, and no diet imposed on her had made much of a difference. She was shy, and she sometimes stammered when she was particularly nervous.

Once Clara had told Cristy that as a little girl she’d been painfully jealous of the fuss their parents had made over their beautiful new baby. Cristy had immediately been the favored child, admired by family and strangers for her golden curls and round blue eyes until her failure in school eclipsed everything else. Then Clara had finally come into her own, pleasing their father by memorizing countless Bible verses, volunteering to help the needy, even polishing the brass in the sanctuary on Saturday evenings to make it shine for the next morning’s services.

In turn Cristy had resented her favored sister until she was old enough to see that Clara desperately wanted love, just as she did. Too, unlike their parents, Clara had stood up for her little sister whenever she could. No one else had half as much insight into how difficult it had been to grow up in their home with so little love and no admiration.

Now Cristy felt a pang of regret for not getting in touch with her sister herself.

“I know I should have called,” she admitted. “I’m sorry, Clara. It’s just been such a tough time for me. But you stood by me when almost nobody else did, and you deserved better.”

“I don’t care about that. I’ve just been worried to death,” Clara said. “I shouldn’t have gone away just now, only...”

“They needed you,” Cristy finished, because she knew that for the rest of her life, it was likely Clara would respond to those words with everything she had to give.

“I just this minute got back. We were building houses out in the jungle. You would have loved all the flowers and the people. It was a beautiful place, but so poor.” She paused. “How are you? Are you okay? Do you need money? How’s Michael?”

Cristy considered her answers, then decided to level. So she told Clara she hadn’t yet seen her son, but she ended with what seemed most promising.

“I’m learning to read,” she said. “The principal of a school in Asheville is tutoring me. She says I’m dyslexic, but that just means I need to learn in a different way.”

“You should have had that kind of help a long time ago.”

Cristy was surprised at her sister’s lack of hesitation. Clara had blurted the words almost before Cristy had finished.

“Well, nobody was willing to help because they thought I was just stupid,” she said.

“I
never
thought that. I don’t think anybody did, not really. Mom and Dad were just so sure they were right to deal with you and your reading problem the way they did, but they weren’t.”

“They were sure about everything, including kicking me out when I finally dropped out of school.”

“Well, they paid the price.”

Cristy started to ask what she meant, but Clara plowed on. “Why haven’t you seen the baby? Berdine’s not causing a problem, is she?”

“No,
I’m
the problem.”

Clara waited, but Cristy didn’t go on.

“Do you plan to?”

“Soon.”

Surprisingly, Clara didn’t advise or probe. “You know you can always come and live with me.”

“Michael’s here. Until I decide what to do about him, I need to stay nearby.”

“What do you mean, decide? He’s your baby.”

Cristy knew better than to explain. She loved her sister, but she also knew that there was no room for gray in Clara’s black-and-white world.

“I’m taking things one step at a time,” she said instead. “I have a job. I’m learning to read. I just need time to work things out.”

“Will you come to visit at least? I’ll send you a ticket.”

“I’d like that. Only just let me get things worked out here.”

“I don’t like you being in the middle of nowhere by yourself.”

“I’m staying safe.”

“Will you at least call me once in a while?”

Cristy didn’t want to point out she had no money to do so, because she knew her sister would immediately try to send her some.

“Pretty soon maybe I’ll even write you a letter,” she said, although she knew that “pretty soon” probably meant months.

“That would mean the world to me.”

“Well, I have to go, but in the meantime, just call whenever you need a little-sis fix, okay?”

Awkwardly Clara told her she loved her, and Cristy echoed the sentiment. Then they hung up. The Haviland family was much better at showing disdain than affection.

She took one look at the clock and ran for her keys.

* * *

Every morning Cristy parked her car near the barn and walked up to the Mountain Mist along paths lined with rhododendron and mountain azalea. The house was cedar, contemporary without being overwhelming, with silvery siding and dark trim. The inside was much the same. A plain entryway led to an inviting but uncluttered living area on the right and a dining area with a wormy chestnut table on the left.

Lorna decorated with local crafts, so photography and hand-thrown pottery warmed the house. Cristy was particularly pleased with the pottery, since she could fill it with flowers and greenery.

Today when she arrived at the B and B she noted that last night’s guests hadn’t yet left, or else new guests had already arrived. Check-in was three, and checkout eleven, but normally people left earlier to get a good start on the day ahead. Cristy usually cleaned the kitchen, then the common areas, finally progressing to the bedrooms as each was vacated. Sometimes no matter how fast or hard she and Lorna worked, they finished up right before guests needed the rooms. The house was large, and dust was a fact of life. So was laundry. Lots and lots of laundry.

When she stepped inside, Lorna was nowhere in sight, so she did a quick inventory. No one else was downstairs, and she quickly began to straighten the living room in preparation for dusting. She plumped cushions, and checked under each to be sure nothing had slipped out of a pocket. She stacked magazines, refolded the weekly
Marshall News-Record and Sentinel
and stacked it beside the magazines, then carried the crystal plate dotted with the morning’s muffin crumbs into the kitchen before she went back for the coffee carafe and condiments to go with it. A third trip and she had gathered most of the mugs in the living room along with the dishes left in the dining area.

She was back in the living room retrieving the last mug and reaching for the candy dish when she heard voices coming down the stairs. She turned to say good-morning and gasped.

The mug, which she had just picked up, crashed to the floor as her hand flew to her face.

“Cristy, good heavens, we didn’t mean to startle you,” Lorna said. “You must have been a million miles away.”

Cristy didn’t answer. She was staring at the man beside Lorna.

“I’m so sorry,” Jackson said. “You must not have heard us coming down the stairs.”

Cristy stared at him. He was dressed in black jeans and a dark plaid shirt that was unbuttoned just enough to give a peek at his chest. His black leather belt and boots shone as if freshly polished by one of a long line of Ford family housekeepers, who were treated with the same casual disregard as his father’s coonhounds.

“Cristy helps me run the place,” Lorna said. “Cristy, this is Mr. Bond.”

Jackson smiled. “Like the spy. Just call me 007.”

Cristy was frozen in place.

Lorna looked perplexed at her reaction. “Mr. Bond is looking for a place to spend his wife’s birthday. He was just here to check out the Sapphire Room.”

Each of the rooms was named after a gem mined in the surrounding mountains. The Sapphire Room was the largest, and Cristy had originally placed a bouquet of deep blue iris with white carnations beside the king-size bed, although irises were notoriously short-lived. She’d had to remove them after a few days and replace them with hyacinths from Lorna’s garden.

She wasn’t sure why that had entered her mind, except that now Jackson had sullied her lovely flowers by his presence.

“I’m just on my way to the kitchen,” Cristy said, gathering her thoughts and hoping that the loud thrumming of her heart wasn’t audible. “I’m sorry about the cup. I’ll clean it up right away.”

“You might need to put a bell around your neck like a cat,” Jackson told Lorna. “So this pretty little gal knows when you’re coming.” His tone was amused and conciliatory, as if he was trying to make a joke to save Cristy from a lecture.