Somewhere Between Luck and Trust (24 page)

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Sully switched on the CD player and turned up the volume. She was glad the conversation was over.

The CD was Johnny Cash, a personal favorite, and she closed her eyes and let the music wash over her. Sully flicked it off when “Folsom Prison Blues” began. She didn’t have to ask why.

They were almost at Berdine’s when he spoke again.

“We don’t have to stay any longer than you’re comfortable with,” he said. “I’m here for you, not vice versa. We can stay all evening or ten minutes, and I’m not going to think less of you.”

Her heart was pounding, and she felt weighted to the seat by apprehension. But when Sully pulled onto a rural road, then into the yard of a two-story brick home with a side porch large enough for a table and comfortable outdoor furniture, she unhooked her seat belt and waited for him to park.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked. “You can call me on my cell when you’re ready to go.”

“No need.”

He leaned over and slipped his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. She was as surprised as if he had slapped her.

“You’re going to be fine,” he promised. “Let’s go see that baby.”

He got out, and she did, too. Beau hopped out the moment Sully opened a rear door. By then the front door of the house was open and Berdine was standing there, the baby in her arms. She waved, then she took Michael’s hand and waved it, too, his chubby little arm moving up and down like a pump handle.

Cristy concentrated on her cousin. Berdine was wearing jeans and a khaki-colored blouse. She had short dark hair that was curly, like Cristy’s own, and Cristy knew she had blue eyes like hers, too. But if curly hair and blue eyes counted as a family resemblance, it ended there. Berdine was thirty pounds heavier than she wanted to be, and while her smile was warm and inviting, she had never been pretty. Until Wayne had come into her life, Berdine had been the girl all the local boys hung out with when they were between girlfriends, a pal in times of crisis.

Wayne, of course, had seen her quite differently.

When she could no longer avoid looking at him, Cristy switched her gaze to Michael. The baby was squirming in Berdine’s arms, reaching out to grab her hair or an earring—Cristy couldn’t tell from this distance. He had a surprising amount of dark hair and his skin was olive-toned.

Like his father.

When she drew closer, he turned to watch her.

And he looked at her through Jackson’s eyes.

“We’re so glad you’re here,” Berdine said, reaching out to hug her. “Michael just got up from a nap, and this might not be the best moment to hand him over. Do you mind?”

Cristy glanced down at the baby, who seemed perfectly amiable, and she realized Berdine was making excuses to give her time. He had chubby cheeks to match the rest of him, and his hair wasn’t baby-fine and straight. It had a little curl. In time it would probably look like Berdine’s, which seemed like some trick the universe had played.

“Hi, Michael,” she said.

The baby’s face lit up when she said his name, and he grinned at her. She saw he had two teeth on the bottom, and when he smiled, his cheeks were dimpled.

Neither of her parents had dimples, and while Cristy could claim faint ones, most people never noticed them. But Jackson’s father, Pinckney Ford, had dimples as deep as gullies, and used them to convince everybody he was an old country boy who based his life on the Good Book and serving God and his fellow man.

Right before he stabbed them in the back.

She looked away quickly. “Thank you for making time for us, Berdine.”

Berdine had tears in her eyes. “Everyone here loves you, Cristy.”

* * *

They stayed for dinner. Berdine fixed country-fried steak and mashed potatoes with gravy, tomato pudding, green bean casserole and homemade biscuits. For dessert there was coconut cream pie. Wayne and Sully ate as if nobody had ever fed them in their lives. The girls, Franny, twelve, and Odile, ten, ate plenty, too, although they took after their father, who could pack in calories and not pack on pounds. They were pretty preadolescents, dark-haired and light-skinned, like their mom, but with a combination of features from their parents that added up to the promise of beauty.

Every single member of the Bates family clearly adored Michael.

After he had happily smashed mashed potatoes on the tray and made his own version of a stew from tiny bites of biscuit and creamed green beans, Cristy got the baby out of his high chair. Berdine had assured her that whether Michael got any of the dinner into his mouth was immaterial. He was just learning he could feed himself, and he probably wasn’t even hungry since he’d had a baby food supper right before they’d sat down as a family.

Michael had gurgled happily throughout the meal, and the moment he’d started to fuss, someone had added something new to his tray or gotten his sippy cup, or held him until he was ready to be propped up in his chair again.

Michael was surprisingly heavy. He would turn six months old next week—Berdine had been the one to mention that—and he weighed nineteen pounds. Cristy had to hang on tight when he squirmed. He acted as if he wanted to jump out of her arms and take the family car for a spin. He didn’t seem to find her presence odd, or mind when she held him. Earlier in the afternoon he had fussed at first, but only until Berdine pointed out he probably had a wet diaper.

Cristy had changed him, holding tight as she did because Berdine had told her he was turning himself over now and would try to roll, if given a chance, on the changing table. From that point on he had been content to let her hold him. She had read him a book—the irony hadn’t gone unnoticed—pointing out the apple and the bluebird until he batted the book away in search of something new.

Beau had made friends with the Bates’s resident collie, and Sully had fit right in to the family. He and Michael had become firm friends right away when Sully joined the baby on the floor to roll a truck back and forth in front of him.

Now it was time for Michael’s good-night bottle.

“I’ll show you where his pj’s are,” Berdine told Cristy, after she’d given him a sponge bath he hadn’t wanted. “You can change him, feed him and put him to bed if you would like.”

Cristy looked at Sully, hoping he would say they needed to leave, but he didn’t say anything.

“Sure,” she said. “Then we have to go.”

“There’s plenty of room for you here,” Wayne said from the corner, where he was helping the girls with their homework. He was a big man, tall, olive-skinned, powerfully built. He was losing his hair, and he made up for what was missing on top with a shaggy beard his daughters liked to tease him about. He clearly relished having a boy in the house, and Berdine had reported that he liked to whisk Michael to the toy section whenever they made the trek to Walmart, so Wayne could pick out a new car or a ball.

“If Wayne had his way, he’d have Michael building houses with him every day,” Berdine had said.

“We can’t stay,” Cristy told Wayne now. “I have to go to work early tomorrow, and Sully has a long trip home.”

“You’ll always be welcome here,” Wayne said.

Cristy followed Berdine and Michael into the baby’s room. It had been Berdine’s sewing room, but she’d confessed she was grateful to Michael for taking it over, since she liked babies better than making curtains, and the girls were refusing to wear the dresses she crafted for them, anyway.

“I thought the two of you might like to be alone.” Berdine didn’t meet Cristy’s eyes. She held the baby against her while she dug in a drawer for his pajamas. Cristy took them out of her hand once she’d settled on a pair.

“Is this hard for you? Me being here?” Cristy asked, aware that it must be.

“I’ve known from the start he’s your baby, honey. And I love you both. We’re attached to him, that’s no lie. But he’ll always be my little cousin, won’t he?”

There were no false notes in the speech, but Cristy knew it was more academic than real. The day she walked out of the house with Michael would be a terrible day for the Bates family.

Berdine met her gaze this time. “You can’t think about
us.
You have to do what’s right for you and Michael.”

“Right now Michael’s the only one who doesn’t seem to realize how tough this is on everyone.”

“We have loved having him here. And we’re strong.”

Cristy had to let it go at that. Berdine left her to slip the baby into his pajamas, and when she had finished, Berdine came back with his bottle.

“He’ll likely fall asleep about halfway through. Just put him in the crib on his back. He’s old enough now if he rolls over to his tummy, he’ll be okay. He’ll be warm enough in these pajamas so you don’t have to cover him with anything. These days they tell you not to put anything heavy on them. Everything changes...” She sounded wistful.

“Thank you. For everything. For being so kind to Sully and me.”

“You’re not hard to be kind to.” Berdine closed the door behind her.

Michael was fussing now, aware that the bottle should be in his mouth. Cristy lowered herself to the rocking chair beside his crib and rested his head in the crook of her arm. He latched on to the nipple as if he hadn’t been fed well and constantly all day.

She watched the baby suck. A curl had fallen over his forehead—Wayne had told her the boy needed a real man’s haircut, but Berdine had threatened to divorce him if he got out the clippers—and she brushed it back with the hand that held him. His skin was velvet-soft, and the curl grabbed at her finger before she dropped her hand. Michael made happy little squeaks as he sucked, batting at her chest and the bottle with a tiny fist.

She wondered what Jackson had looked like as a baby.

She rocked him slowly, even smiled when his tummy rumbled loudly. He stopped sucking and frowned, as if to say, “Please, I’m trying to sleep.”

In minutes he
was
sleeping. She put the bottle on the nightstand, only half-emptied, and with both arms around him, she lifted him into the crib.

She had no desire to stay there and watch him sleep. Prison had done one important thing. She never lied to herself. These days, whether the truth pleased her or not, she faced it head-on.

She could not wait to get out on the road again with Sully.

She stayed just long enough to be sure Michael was going to remain asleep, then she took the bottle into the kitchen, where Berdine was staring out the window.

“Where’s the rest of the family?” Cristy asked.

“They’re out at the pond. It’s a full moon tonight. The moon’s reflected in the water, and it’s real pretty.”

Sully came to stand in the kitchen doorway, as if to offer support. “I’m going to go now,” Cristy said.

Berdine turned and smiled. “I’m glad you came. I really am. You need to get to know him.”

Cristy leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You’ll say goodbye to the family?”

“I will.”

Sully followed her out the front door, and by the time she got to the car he was already there, opening her door and the rear one, too. At the sound of the doors Beau bounded around the corner of the house, and in a moment, he’d taken his place inside. She slid inside, too, and in a minute Sully was backing up so he could turn and head out to the road.

She didn’t speak until the Bates’ house was ten minutes behind them.

“Michael looks like Jackson,” she said. “Did you see it, too?”

“He looks like a baby to me. A particularly beautiful baby.” He glanced at her. “But what I think doesn’t matter, does it?”

She fell silent again. What had she expected? That Sully would understand? That he would say, yes, and he’s going to turn out to be just like his father? But Sully waited, and when she didn’t speak, he did.

“Sometimes, Cristy, the best thing a mother can do for her child is walk away.”

“I can’t walk away! I’m Michael’s mother. I’m supposed to love him. If his mother doesn’t love him, how can he grow up to be a happy person? Don’t you get that?”

“Michael will be fine where he is. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

She had swallowed tears all afternoon. Now she couldn’t hold them back. They slid down her cheeks unchecked while Sully drove in silence.

Chapter Twenty-Six

GEORGIA QUESTIONED HER
decision to go on the wild-goose chase to find her mother right up until the moment on Friday afternoon when she got into Lucas’s comfortable Lexus. His introduction dinner with Sam and Edna had gone so well she’d wondered why she felt a need for more family than she already had.

Then once she was in his car and it was too late to change her mind, she shelved the fear that they wouldn’t learn a thing—as well as the fear they might—and decided to enjoy just being with him, and Cristy, too.

Unfortunately, by the time they reached the home of his parents, in Norcross just twenty miles from metropolitan Atlanta, the fear returned.

It seemed that everybody in her home state lived on Peachtree something or other, and Lucas’s parents were no exception. They lived on Peachtree Street, in the historic section of the small city, which sat along the Eastern Continental Divide, once a major transportation route for Cherokee and Creek, and later for the Richmond-Danville Railroad. Norcross was still a railroad town and proud of its heritage. Lucas said that although he hadn’t lived there for years, he still slept best when trains roared through the darkest hours of the night and shook whatever house he lay in.

The house he parked in front of was suitable for a storybook, the kind Georgia had dreamed about as a child when she pretended she had a real family. The lot was expansive, shaded by magnolia and oak and festooned with beds of azaleas and camellias, some in bloom now and swaying in a light, warm breeze. A wide front porch wrapped around one side, and the green gabled roof promised a second story.

“You grew up here?” Georgia asked.

“My brother and I shared a room, and so did the two youngest girls. I’m the oldest, but the sister right below me had a bedroom all to herself. In retaliation we ganged up on her whenever we could get away with it. To this day we can’t walk up behind Natalie without getting smacked. It’s a reflex.”

“Was there a lot of fighting?” Cristy asked from the backseat.

“There are five of us, and only my parents and my grandmother to make sure we behaved. We did a lot of things we weren’t allowed to, just because we outnumbered them.”

“Your grandmother lived with you?”

“After my grandfather died. It wasn’t much of an adjustment for us. They’d lived around the corner and were always at our house anyway.”

Lucas stepped down to the street, and both Georgia and Cristy opened their doors to save him from displaying his Southern manners. The women went to the back to help him with the bags.

“Who lives here now?” Cristy asked, and Georgia thought from her tone that she, like Georgia, felt as if she’d stepped onto a movie lot.

“Mama, Papa, Nonna—that’s my grandmother. Joe and his family just sold their house, so they’re staying here until they can move into their new one in a couple of weeks.”

Georgia imagined the house bursting at the seams. “Lucas, I can’t believe they have room for us, too.”

“Are you kidding? They aren’t happy unless every inch is filled. They have beds everywhere, and plenty of bathrooms.”

For a moment Georgia longed for her quiet town house, for the pleasure of slipping off her shoes and turning on soft music. For not having to make conversation with people she didn’t know.

Lucas caught her eye. “You’re going to love it here.”

The door opened and a woman called, “Lucas, what’s taking so long?”

“Mama,” he told Cristy and Georgia. “We never move fast enough for her.”

“We’re not coming in unless you made lasagna,” he called to the slight figure on the porch.

“You don’t hurry, it’ll all be gone.”

He closed the back of the car and started up a brick path to the porch, with the two women following. The sky was softly lit by what would probably be a gorgeous sunset if they could see it through the canopy of trees.

“You must be Georgia.” Mia Ramsey, tall like her son, but with thinner, delicate features and blond hair, extended her arms and gave Georgia no choice other than a hug. Then she did the same to Cristy. “And you’re Cristy,” she said, enfolding the young woman before Cristy could say yes. “You must be exhausted. We’re so glad you’re here.”

Georgia was on the porch just long enough to register wicker furniture with flowered cushions, plant stands overflowing with ferns, a bright blue cupboard filled with magazines, books and games. Then she was standing in a wallpapered center hallway with high ceilings and polished mahogany woodwork.

“I’ve put you two in Lucas’s old room.” Mia started up the stairs at a quick pace. She had to be in her mid-sixties, Georgia thought, but she seemed to have the stamina of a woman Cristy’s age.

Georgia took her bag from Lucas, Cristy wrestled hers free, and they started after Mia, who was recounting the history of the house as she climbed.

“...early nineteen hundreds, a railroad family. They call the architectural style a Craftsman bungalow, and the last family to live in it before we did covered most of the woodwork with white paint.” She glanced behind her and glared. “Do you know what a sacrilege that was? I spent years scraping it off and refinishing when we moved in after Lucas was born. Douglas told me not to, but Douglas is wrong about these things more often than he’s right.”

Georgia already knew Douglas was Lucas’s father. “I hope we really aren’t inconveniencing you.” She felt she had to say it.

“If the family stops coming or bringing friends, then I’ll turn the place into a B and B. The house isn’t happy unless it’s stacked clear to the eaves.”

She stopped at the second bedroom on the right. “Nonna lives at the end.” She pointed to the other side of the hallway. “You don’t have to worry about disturbing her. She doesn’t hear well, and if she does hear, she won’t remember a few minutes later. Other than the hearing and the short-term memory problem, she’s in great shape. We’ll be having her lasagna tonight, not mine, but other than her refusal to use oregano, it’s nearly as good, so Lucas won’t be disappointed. She makes the pasta fresh.”

Mia opened the door to the bedroom and ushered them inside. The walls sloped, but it was possible to stand up straight everywhere except at the perimeter. Two single beds adorned with blue-and-white quilts stood feet apart on beautifully finished pine floors. Nightstands flanked them both, and the walls were adorned with sepia-toned photographs of serious-looking men and women in formal poses.

Mia saw Georgia examining them. “My great-grandparents, and my husband’s. Aren’t we lucky to have those?”

Georgia felt the way she sometimes did when she saw an old movie where too much love, too many plot threads tied tightly into happy endings, left a taste so sweet it made her teeth ache. Yet this was real. Doris Day wasn’t going to parade through the hall in Edwardian dress singing wistful, romantic ballads at the window. Enthusiastic Confederate soldiers weren’t going to parade down Peachtree Street to the
rat-a-tat-tat
of a fourteen-year-old drummer boy. A real family lived here, with connections to a past they honored and hopes for a future they would all have a share in.

“You
are
lucky,” Georgia said. And she meant it.

* * *

Georgia had expected lasagna and salad, perhaps garlic bread, too. And she had been right, as far as it went. But the meal had begun with a platter of vegetable antipasti, much like Lucas had made for her, and after the extraordinary lasagna, Mia served a garlic-studded roast on a bed of lightly steamed spinach with the most delicious tomato sauce Georgia had ever encountered. The lasagna consisted of multiple layers of fresh pasta sandwiching béchamel sauce and a homemade ragout. It was unlike anything by that name that Georgia had ever eaten, and completely addictive.

By the time she finished with espresso and a plate of macaroons and baklava, she wasn’t sure she had the strength to push away from the table. There were ten sitting around it, and Nonna—who insisted Georgia and Cristy call her that, too—had lamented how few there were. The table would easily have seated fourteen, and before dinner Lucas had told her that they could squeeze eighteen around it when they had to.

Despite the number, the meal had proceeded at a controlled, leisurely pace. People waited their turns, helped themselves when it was polite to do so, made certain their neighbors were served. Before a dish was removed, Nonna or Mia came around with seconds. Wine flowed, and so did conversation.

Douglas, whom Georgia could have picked out in a crowd because of the strong resemblance to his son, was the quietest family member, but the moment he spoke, the table grew silent and everybody listened. On the trip down Lucas had said that his father had nearly recovered from the heart surgery that had worried them so much, but it was clear that the family was still treading softly.

Georgia had been seated next to Joe, Lucas’s only brother, and she had liked him immediately. He was more extroverted than Lucas, the family clown and a hands-on father who cajoled his three children, a girl of fourteen named Leila, and twin twelve-year-old boys, Gabe and Elias, with smiles and funny quips. All three looked like their dark-haired mother, Becca, whose baklava they had all enjoyed, and they were good-natured children who obviously felt right at home.

Mia refused to let Georgia or Cristy help with cleanup, although she promised that escaping was a first-time privilege. The men cleared, including Gabe and Elias, and Leila helped a little, but she was ousted after a few minutes for lack of room.

Lucas suggested a game of hide-and-seek, but the kids groaned. Georgia told them about a game her students had always liked called Name-It Ball, and since no one there had ever played it, they were intrigued.

The backyard was spacious, with an expansive brick patio and enough outdoor lighting that they could see each other when they formed the circle. Georgia explained the rules.

“I’m going to name a category, then I’ll bounce the ball to one of you and when you catch it, you have to name something in that category. If you hold the ball too long, then you’re out until the next round. Once you’ve named something, you bounce the ball to someone else, and we keep going until only one person is left.”

Leila groaned, but she didn’t leave. Georgia said the first category would be easy to get them going, and called out vegetables. She bounced the ball to Leila first, who caught it, surprised.

“Celery,” she said after a short pause, and bounced it to Lucas.

The game proceeded at a quick pace. No one got angry when he or she was cut from the circle, because there was too much laughter. The finals came down to Cristy and Leila, and Cristy won with
artichoke.

They played again and again, and the circle changed until Georgia was no longer sure which twin was which. One of them finished first when the subject was Disney movies. Leila won with rock stars, and the other twin was in the final two with soft drinks.

Fireflies—which the children called lightning bugs—began to appear as the game wound down. Lucas made a point of winning the next round.

“Georgia has fifty-six separate species of fireflies,” he said, “more than any other state. I did a story about that once. So that’s my choice. Let’s call out the Latin names.” He held up the ball.

Everybody laughed or groaned, and the game ended for the night.

Becca came out to get the boys, and Joe helped herd them inside. Georgia, Lucas, Cristy and Leila went to the front porch and sat on the comfortable furniture to watch the firefly display. Leila had clearly taken a liking to Cristy, and the two were laughing and chatting on a glider off to one side.

“How would you like a fourteen-year-old girl’s perspective on the bracelet?” Lucas asked.

He was sitting close, one arm draped over her shoulders. She had her head against his arm and now she turned to see his face.

“Did you tell your family why we’re in town?”

“Not details. Those can come from you when you’re ready. I just told them we were doing some research into your family history.”

“I’ve never felt like I had either one. Family, except for Sam and Edna, or history.”

“You have both—they’re just a mystery.”

“And maybe they should remain that way.”

He leaned down and kissed the tip of her nose. “We don’t have to do this. Are you worried?”

She thought what a luxury it would be to say yes, to admit she was in turmoil, but she didn’t want to seem that vulnerable.

“I would be,” Lucas answered before she could. “I’m not surprised.”

“Surprised about what? I didn’t even have a chance to answer you.”

“Georgia, you aren’t as good at hiding your feelings as you think, although you work hard at it. And why do you need to? It would be abnormal to just blithely sail through tomorrow without having a second thought about what you might find.”

She couldn’t address that. She moved away just a little so she could see him better. “What do you think Leila could tell us?”

“I don’t know, but Cristy had great insights. And the bracelet was probably started about the time the owner—whoever she is—was around Leila’s age.”

“I guess it won’t hurt.”

“Why don’t you run and get it?”

She hated to leave the porch, even for a few minutes. Blossoms were sweetly scenting the night air, which had cooled to the perfect temperature for sitting with Lucas’s arm around her. From inside she heard laughter and the rattling of dishes. The cleanup was finished in the kitchen, but Lucas had told her Mia always readied coffee for the morning and set out cereal and dishes so the family could help themselves while she slept a little later. She was a night person, not a slave to her kitchen, and everyone knew better than to disturb her before nine in the morning.

Georgia made herself go upstairs, and when she came back down she found Lucas had pulled chairs into a circle and was explaining to Leila that Georgia had found the bracelet, and they were trying to track down the owner. She had to admire his story, which was completely true, as far as it went. She wondered if he’d learned to do this early in his newspaper career, and when or if he had used this particular skill on her. What wasn’t Lucas saying in its entirety that he ought to?