“The number, Mama. How did you get it?”

“Some woman named Sandra at your old job. I told her there was a family emergency, and I needed to get in touch with you as soon as possible.”

Christy-Lynn smothers a groan. “Why did you need to get in touch with me?”

“Oh, a bit of trouble. You know . . .”

Yes. She knew. “What kind of trouble?”

“I’m a little bit short, sweetie. I still owe last month’s rent, Dave says the car needs some kind of pump, and I . . . I lost my job at the Quick Stop.”

Christy-Lynn is about to ask who Dave is and why she lost her job, but decides she doesn’t want to know. “How short?”

“They’re saying four hundred for the pump thingy, but there’s the rent too.” There’s a pause, the rasp of smoke being exhaled. “I know it’s a lot, sweetie, but a grand would really get me back on my feet. And then I promise, I won’t bother you again.”

A thousand dollars.

Christy-Lynn closes her eyes, forcing herself to take slow, even breaths. It’s a small price to get her off the phone—and back out of her life. “Where should I send it?”

Charlene rattles off an address somewhere in Walterboro. Christy-Lynn jots it down on the notepad she keeps on the fridge.

“Thank you.” Her voice seems to wobble, and there’s a long pause. “Are you . . . are you happy, baby girl?”

“Yes,” Christy-Lynn tells her. Her voice is clipped, almost defiant. “Yes, I am.”

It occurs to her as she doodles a sad face on the notepad that she should ask her mother the same. But the truth is she isn’t sure she can bear the details.

“I’ll mail the check today,” she says instead. “It should be there in a few days.”

“Thank you, baby.” It’s little more than a whisper, thready and desperate. “Thank you so much.” And then, abruptly, the line is dead.

Christy-Lynn stares at the phone, and for a moment, the old guilt rears its head. Would things have gone differently for Charlene Parker if her daughter hadn’t deserted her? It’s hard to imagine. If those terrible years had taught her anything, it was that time didn’t change women like her mother. It merely hastened their decline. Still, the question lingered. Could she have made a difference?

She drops the phone into its cradle and goes to her purse to find her checkbook. Her hand shakes as she makes it out—$3,000. It’s more than her mother asked for, but guilt has a way of making people generous.

She drops the checkbook back in her purse. It’s her personal checkbook, of course. There’s no reason for Stephen to know about the call. As far as he knows, her mother is dead—and until a few moments ago she had assumed the same.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Sweetwater, Virginia

July 19, 2017

Christy-Lynn propped her feet up on an unopened carton of books, eyeing the stack of papers awaiting her attention. There were invoices to pay, next week’s schedule to finish, and the back-to-school sale to plan, but at the moment, she was too distracted to tackle any of it.

She had green-lighted the trust paperwork with Peter Hagan six days ago. At the time, he had promised they would be ready in a week, two at the most. Now he was saying it was looking more like three—something about needing more time to make sure the necessary safeguards against abuse were in place. She appreciated his diligence on her behalf, but in the meantime, her life seemed to have slipped into a kind of limbo, her thoughts consumed with the logistics of the thing. She never imagined giving money away could be so complicated.

And there was still Rhetta to convince. Despite their complicated and inexplicable ties, they were little more than strangers. And here she was, the well-heeled widow preparing to swoop in like some kind of lady bountiful. Would Rhetta think the offer presumptuous? See it as meddling in something that was none of her business? Both were not only possible but likely.

She had planned to broach the subject with the paperwork in front of her, hoping that laying it all out in black and white would help put Rhetta at ease. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to wait three weeks. She’d seen firsthand how stubborn the woman could be when it came to accepting help. Perhaps it would be wise to reach out now and get her used to the idea.

Christy-Lynn reached for her cell, pulled up Rhetta’s new number, and hit “Send.” Rhetta’s voice came wheezing over the line after three rings.

“Hello?”

She sounded tired and almost startled, as if she was surprised the phone had rung at all, which Christy-Lynn guessed it rarely did. “Rhetta, it’s Christy-Lynn. Are you all right? You don’t sound well.”

“Just . . . winded is all. Is anything wrong?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering if you were going to be home this weekend. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

The television was on in the background, a talk show with lots of hooting and applause. Rhetta raised her voice over the din. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I just have something . . . I have an idea I’d like to talk to you about, a way I think we can both help Iris, but I’d like to do it in person if possible. I could come on Saturday.”

“Well, I’ve got nowhere to go, so that would be fine, but I hate for you to drive all that way.”