Christy-Lynn stared at the rapidly melting ice in her tea as she waited for her emotions to right themselves. “Are you . . . ?”

“I’m off the drugs. All of it.”

“But you’re still drinking.”

She smiled grimly. “Old habits die hard. I had to pick one or the other, and I figured I was less likely to kill myself with a bottle than with a needle.”

It was a strange conversation to be having. They had never actually talked about the booze and the drugs. They were just a fact, something to be tiptoed around whenever possible.

“Was it after you got out of jail? Is that when you got clean?”

“No. Not then. Not even to get you back. I wanted to. I did. I just . . . couldn’t. I’ve only been clean about four years. So you see, hanging around waiting for me to become mother of the year would have been a waste of time. For a long time—years—I wondered what had happened to you, if you’d turned out all right. And then one day I saw your picture in one of those celebrity magazines—married to some hotshot writer—and I knew you’d be fine. No thanks to me, of course, but I was so proud and happy for you. And so ashamed when I had to call and ask you for money that time. I said it was for rent, but it wasn’t.”

“You used it to buy drugs?”

“No.” Charlene shook her head as she fumbled in her lap for her lost lighter. “But I used it to pay off my guy, which amounts to the same thing. But that was the last time. That’s when I decided to get clean. Not because I was afraid of ending up dead in an alley somewhere. Because I couldn’t bear the thought of ever having to dial your number again.”

There were tears in her eyes. She blinked, and they spilled down her cheeks, leaving a pair of shiny tracks down her ruined face. Christy-Lynn was quiet for a time. In spite of everything, all the recklessness and neglect and shame, it was hard to see her mother this way.

“Do you need money?” she asked quietly. “Or . . . anything?”

Charlene managed the ghost of a smile. “No, honey, and even if I did, I couldn’t take it from you. Things are tight, and this is no palace, but we manage. And you . . .” She reached for her cigarettes only to find the pack empty. “I know it hasn’t been long since the accident, but are you . . . happy?”

“I own a bookstore now. It keeps me busy. And I do some editing on the side.”

A crease formed between Charlene’s brows. “Busy and happy aren’t the same thing. I meant is there someone in your life, someone who makes you happy?”

Christy-Lynn shifted uncomfortably. She found her mother’s sudden concern for her happiness grating. “You saw the papers,” she replied stiffly. “I’m not cut out for happy. Busy is going to have to do. And I prefer being alone. Fewer . . . complications.”

The unscarred corner of Charlene’s mouth turned down. “You always were a terrible liar.”

“It isn’t a lie. And I didn’t come here for a lecture on happiness.”

“No,” Charlene said flatly. “I don’t suppose you did. Have you said what you came to say then, or is there more?”

Once again, Christy-Lynn’s eyes crept to the scars on her wrist. Yes, there was more. Much more. But there was no point in raking through it. She’d done what she needed to do, seen what she needed to see. “Yes,” she said evenly. “I have.”

Charlene stood abruptly and crossed to the door. “Then it’s time for you to go.”

Christy-Lynn stared at her, stunned by the curt dismissal.

“It’s best for us both really,” Charlene said with a fleeting smile. “Roger will be home soon. He works a half day on Sundays, and I don’t want to have to explain you. He knows all the rest of it, but I couldn’t bear him knowing the kind of mother I was. I’ve done a lot in my life that I’m ashamed of, but nothing compares to the way I screwed up with you.”

Christy-Lynn came slowly to her feet, reaching into the side pocket of her purse for a pen and a business card. “I’ll leave you my cell. In case you need anything.” She scribbled down the number and held it out, but Charlene shook her head.

“Thank you, but no. We’re done, you and I, and have been for a long time. You said it yourself—you came because you wanted to forget me, and now you can. At least I hope you can. Consider it a gift. God knows I’ve never given you much else. Except maybe a promise I never kept. So go—forget.”

There was a heaviness in Christy-Lynn’s chest that she hadn’t expected as she moved to the door. “But I can’t just—”

“Go,” Charlene urged, pulling back the door to let in a blast of Carolina heat. “Please. You have a life, Christy-Lynn. Maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s a life you can be proud of, which is more than I can say. I’m lucky to be alive after the way I’ve lived mine. I don’t deserve to get my little girl back.”

“Won’t you at least let me do something for you?”

“You were always smart. Be smart now. Go back to Virginia and don’t look back. That’s what you can do for me.”

Christy-Lynn stood there a moment but couldn’t think of anything to say. Finally she dropped the card on the coffee table and slipped through the open door. She had come for closure, but as she started the engine and drove away, all she felt was numb, unable to put a name to the dull ache in her throat as she watched the Dixie Court apartments recede in her rearview mirror.