Like Sweet Potato Pie (32 page)

So much for Becky’s prayer for a night without crisis. Which ended … oh, around four in the morning.

I should have included the following afternoon in my prayer as well, when I drove home from Barnes & Noble, taking back roads and checking my rearview mirror over every rise, every turn. Keeping an eye out for Chase’s red Blazer.

And why not? I’d absconded with his favorite punching bag. Hidden her inside Mom’s cream-colored walls and blue-and-white-checked gingham curtains, begging her to talk to Jerry and call in a sick day at Cracker Barrel. Or maybe three or four of them until Chase got tired of looking for her.

What on earth have you gotten yourself into, Shiloh Jacobs?
I scolded myself, slipping on a pretty gray sweater dress. Stockings. Nice, trendy Mary Janes—unlike the scuffed ones I wore to the restaurant. I pinned up my hair and grabbed my plate of cheap Rice Krispie squares, the three-ingredient budget dessert, just in time for Frank’s birthday party.

“Don’t you dare call Chase, Trinity.” I pulled on a winter white jacket that probably wasn’t warm enough and slung my purse over my shoulder, giving Christie one last scratch behind the ears. “Promise?”

“I won’t. And he’ll leave, Shiloh. I’m sure of it. He’s got everything all lined up in California. The trailer is sold. He can’t stay here very long.”

“He might bash your stuff in when he finds you missing.” I propped my sunglasses over my hair. “Just to warn you.”

“I know.” She stood at the window, avoiding my eyes. “He’s done that before, too.”

Jerk.
I watched her there, arms folded on the sill and eyes reflecting barren trees and soft sunny skies of early winter, and I felt suddenly thankful for God’s new love opening up in my heart. No matter what Carlos said about my pitiful life.

“You sure you don’t want to go to your grandfather’s party?” I hesitated, gloves in hand.

“No. Chase might look for me at Grandma’s. Or my car, anyway.”

“He won’t find it here.” Not hidden behind Stella’s bus, just like the night we spied on Faye and Earl. “As long as you—” I broke off, words sticking in my throat at Trinity’s focused frown. Her eyes turned past me toward the front yard. “What?”

“I thought I saw a car.”

“What? Here?”

We both jumped as someone banged at the front door. Loudly. The glass of water on the table shook, and Christie leaped from my arms, hackles raised.

G
reat. Great. Great.
I ran my hand through my bangs, trying to decide what to do. Keep quiet? Answer it? Confront him?
God, this is getting over my head! What are You doing to me?

“Wait—that’s not Chase’s car.” Trinity spoke in low tones, peering through the living-room curtains.

“You can’t trust anybody, Trinity. Don’t you get it? He’ll—”

“It says U.S. Mail.”

“Mail?” I jerked my head to the split in the curtains. “What?”

The door pounded again. I clenched a hand over my racing heart and shoved Trinity out of the room then moved to open the door a crack. “Can I help you?”

“Sign here.” The uniformed guy shoved a clipboard at me.

“For what?”

“Registered mail. I need your signature.” He held up an envelope.

I stepped through the screen door and scrawled my name with the attached pen then reached for the envelope.

And there grinned the words in crisp, no-nonsense font: J
AMES
R
EUBEN
P
RUFROCK
III.

I fumed all the way through winding back roads to Beulah’s, trying to avoid the main highways. I know, I know. A surprise party. I was supposed to be cheerful. But I couldn’t tear my thoughts from that stupid letter by Ashley’s lawyer. Lying on the passenger’s seat, a malevolent block of black and white. And all the while, keeping an eye out for Chase’s Blazer.

My cell phone trilled. “Trinity?” I shook off my gloves and jerked my phone up to my ear, against my own driving regulations. “What’s up? You okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s just … Christie sort of chewed on one of the couch cushions.”

I drove over a bump of roadkill. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, she really did. Just the corner where you … Well, you can see some split threads. I can try to sew it back.”

Of all the …!
I covered the phone and groaned. “Just keep her out of the living room,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “Don’t worry, Trinity. She does it with me, too. I have to watch her constantly. She’s getting better, but …” I stopped at a desolate intersection, not sure whether to go right or left. I snatched up a map from the passenger’s seat and turned it one way. Then the other. Turn signal blinking as I tried to find the road.

“Oh, and some guy named Carlos called.”

“What?” I hollered. My foot slipped off the brake, and the car rolled a few feet.

“He just said he’d call back later.”

“No!” I pounded the steering wheel. “I don’t want him to call back! Ever!”

“Sorry, Shiloh. I—I didn’t know.”

“No, it’s not your fault.” I felt like blubbering again. I gave up trying to read the map and turned down the road to the right, which forked at an unmarked intersection. Right again, and the two-lane road meandered into a cow-spangled distance. “We’re done. Over. Period. Why can’t Carlos leave things alone?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you this or not, but …”

“But what?” I swallowed hard and drove over a weedy hill then down into a long stretch of pasture. Not seeing any of the landmarks the map suggested.

“Right after Carlos, somebody from that septic service called, saying you’d scheduled some maintenance work.”

“I did NOT! Wait ‘til I get my hands on those … Wait a second. What is this?” I turned, cell phone to my ear, as the road narrowed down to a sparse one-lane, lined with gravel on either side. Marked with flagging tape.

The road coiled around several turns with dusty, brush-choked shoulders, and paint faded into unmarked asphalt.

“This can’t be right.” I slowed and tried to turn, but the overgrown woods hemmed me in. Asphalt under my tires littered with layers of rust-brown pine needles and decaying leaves.

The road bumped off pavement into dirt and then abruptly dead-ended. Right in an unfinished patch of dry, tan soil, grasses waving. Land surveyors were already checking the area for construction readiness, as evidenced by the perk holes—scattered brown mounds of fresh earth like fresh cow pies. Snow melting between them in pale patches.

“Shiloh? You still there?”

“I’m here.” I let out a sigh and pulled to a stop. I checked the map again then tossed the useless thing on the seat. “You don’t know where Smokewood Meade is, do you?” I peered out the window at a C
OMING
S
OON
construction sign next to some roped-off areas marked with flagging tape.

“Where? I don’t think so.”

“Great. Then you can’t tell me how to get to your grandma’s place from here.”

Trinity paused. “Um … sorry, but no. What’s the nearest main road?” I checked the map, turned it right and left, and tried to find the name with my finger. None of the route numbers on the map made sense.

“I have no idea. I came from that road by the barn.”

“What barn? There are tons of barns.”

“The red one. The one near that church. What is it, Route 254?” I shook out the map. “No. Not that one. I don’t know.” I looked out the window again, phone under my chin. “How about if I call you when I get out of here and figure out where I am?”

“Sure. I’ll stay by the phone.”

“Thanks. And stay safe, Trinity.”

“I will. Thanks for your help. Really.” Her voice quivered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Are you kidding? I don’t even know what county I’m in.”

I tried to turn my car around on the loose jumble of rocks and branches, pausing only when an out-of-state number vibrated on my cell phone. I answered, holding it under my chin as I turned the wheel sharply to the left, steering column complaining.

“Shiloh Jacobs? This is Doreen from
USA Today.
How are you?”

I jammed on the brakes. “Fine, thanks. You received my résumé?”

“We did. It looks great. You’ve got a lot of experience.”

My heart hammered loudly in my ears. “Thank you. I’d be glad to send my portfolio, or—”

“Well, actually we’re not hiring for news-desk positions right now. But we’ve got a receptionist job if you’re interested.”

Receptionist? A
receptionist
job? Answering phones while all the big-shot reporters laughed together in the lobby, lanyards over their perfect trendy suits, all laden down with Starbucks cups and briefcases?

Tears burned in my eyes as I sucked back my pride, eyes landing on James Prufrock’s envelope. My Green Tree to-go bag still on the floorboard. “What’s the salary?”

She told me, and I slumped against the back of the seat. Barely more than I made already, but without the free rent.

“Um … thanks,” I mumbled, trying to force a little politeness in my voice. “I’m probably not interested, but I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”

As soon as I pressed off the phone, I gunned the engine and abruptly hit something hard. It reverberated through the entire undercarriage, and my wheels on one side spun in the muddy, snow-slushy dirt. I shifted into R
EVERSE,
horrified, and something—a rock, tree branch—hung against the back of my wheel, refusing to budge.

Oh. My. Goodness.
I turned off the car and sat there in perfect silence, a single pine needle sifting down onto my windshield. Crows over the field flapping soundless wings as they soared off into soft blue sky, making black specks in the distance.

I thought of banging the steering wheel, but what would that do? I’d probably destroyed Mom’s Honda enough.

“Great. Now I’ve got to call Beulah and tell her I’ll be late,” I muttered through my teeth, scrolling through my cell phone numbers.

Just as my cell phone vibrated again, buzzing against my hand.

“Whoever you are, go away!” I hollered, trying to keep back the tears.

I fumbled with the phone, pressing all the wrong buttons before finally hitting the right one and snapping a crabby, “What?” Then I saw—out of the corner of my eye—a familiar number on the screen. “Adam?” I shoved it to my ear in disbelief.

“Shiloh? You … uh … okay?”

It took me a minute to realize that (1) Adam Carter had called me and (2) was still waiting on the line for me to respond. The breath went out of me as I tried to gather my words.

“Me?” I swallowed, my fingers fluttering nervously on the cell phone. “Sure. I’m just fine. Thanks.” I tried to sound cheery and—most importantly—indifferent.

He stayed silent awhile then cleared his throat. “Actually I was wondering if maybe we could … talk.”

“You want to talk? To me?” I almost laughed then thought better of it. “What about?”

Adam sighed. “I don’t know, Shiloh. Our friendship. I just wish we could … settle some things.”

“Okay.” I responded like a robot. Afraid that if I talked too long I’d either cry or spill all my problems—neither of which sounded either wise or appealing. Especially not in front of Adam Carter.

I just sat there, drumming my fingers nervously on the steering wheel.

“You sure you’re okay?”

His voice hit me with an unexpected tenderness, despite the stiff layer of formality over his words, and before I could stop myself, hot tears coursed down my cheeks. I mopped them silently, not daring to breathe.

“Shiloh?”

“I’m here. And I’m perfectly fine.” I turned my head away from the phone to wipe my nose with a tissue. “Never been better.”

I turned on the ignition and revved the gas, trying to move the car. Something scraped along the undercarriage with a sick grinding sound, and I threw it into P
ARK
again, the tail end still pointing toward the road at a crazy angle. “I’m just a little stuck is all. But I’ll figure something out.”

“Stuck? Where are you?”

“I have no idea.” I glared at the map and mopped my cheeks. I leaned closer to the window, trying to make out the words on the sign. “Smokewood Meade. I’m lost, and I think I hit something.”

“Oh, I know where you are. That new construction site, right? They’re going to put in a subdivision.”

“You know it?” I brightened slightly. “Can you tell me how to get out of here and over to Beulah’s?”

“Well, I’m actually not far away. Want me to come by there and take a look at your car?”

“Would you?” I wiped my nose. “Thanks. Not because I … you know … am a woman and can’t drive or read maps. I’m just …” My throat choked again.

“Do you want me to come?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“I’ll be there in about five minutes.”

I pressed off the phone then dropped my head on the steering wheel and whispered a prayer for the mess of my life. For Ashley. For Trinity. For my car even, lodged against whatever I’d run over.

“It’s not like things can get any worse, God,” I sniffled, reluctantly opening my door and crunching through the mucky dry grass and patches of white snow. Kneeling down among the scattered pinecones to see what I’d hit.