Somewhere Between Luck and Trust (27 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON
Cristy recognized the telltale rumble of Dawson’s pickup climbing the driveway. To her finely tuned ears every engine had its own music, and Dawson’s was accompanied by the loud thump of hip-hop. By the time he pulled in and got out, she and Beau were waiting at the bottom of the path to the house.

She lounged against a fence post. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I’ve got something for you.”

“Is this like that story about the big wooden horse? I get all excited, then I find out there’s something hiding in wait?”

He grinned, and she wondered how many female hearts at BCAS fluttered painfully whenever he walked into a room.

“The only person who’s being fooled today is my father. I told him I’m working with Mrs. Ferguson on a school project, and that’s why he let me escape the funny farm for the afternoon.”

“Lying gets people in trouble. Of course, so does telling the truth.”

He leaned down to pet Beau, who was bumping against his leg in anticipation. “We ought to just keep our mouths shut, I guess.”

“I’m thinking that’s got to be the right answer.”

“If it makes you feel better, I wasn’t really lying. I
am
working with Mrs. Ferguson on something. That part’s true. If you invite me up to the porch, I’ll tell you about it.”

“Want to see the raspberries first?”

“Oh, sure, I’ve never seen raspberries before.” He rolled his eyes.

“Humor me. You can tell me everything I’ve done wrong. You’ll be good at that.”

“Just a few short weeks and you already know me well.”

They strolled toward the garden. She listened as Dawson complained about school and home, almost as if he were fulfilling expectations so they could get on to something more fun.

She opened the garden gate. “Your mom doesn’t sound too bad. Does she always run interference between you and your father? Do they get along?”

“Yeah, they have the same squinty-eyed vision of the world. There’s good, and there’s evil. Somebody tells them which is which, they record it in their little life book and they’re finished. They aren’t bad people. It’s just that if something doesn’t fit, they don’t know what to do with it.”

“Something like
you.
”

“Prime example. My brother fit neatly on the good side of their book. I don’t fit anywhere.”

“I guess the trick is to figure out that you’re on the good side, too, no matter what
they
believe. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“Damaged goods, both of us. That’s what I like about you.”

They strolled down her carefully planted rows, and when he got to the spinach Dawson shook his head, then he squatted to thin it, sending seedlings flying as she screeched in indignation.

He ignored her protests and kept right on going. “You ever heard of the survival of the fittest? Some of these seedlings have to go or you won’t have any crop at all. It’s already pretty late for spinach. You have to give it a chance.”

“I hate that.”

“If this bothers you, you ought to be at our place when we ‘thin’ the chickens.”

“How can you kill harmless little chickens?”

“My father says a real man’s tough, and I’d better get moving in that direction.” He got to his feet. “You do the rest after I leave.”

“Being tough is overrated.”

“You eat chicken?”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

He said the raspberry plants were coming along, which pleased her, and he told her that when Harmony brought the tomato tree plants that weekend, they could put them right in, with a little protection on cool nights.

They chatted about gardens and her job as they headed back toward the porch. Dawson veered off toward his pickup to get something, and she went inside for iced tea.

By the time she got back outside, he had papers on the porch table, right where she’d planned to set the tea.

“So what are those for?” She put his glass at one edge.

“I wrote you a couple of stories. Originals, that you can read.”

“Really?” She didn’t know what else to say. Nothing could please her more, but she also knew her limitations.

“Don’t worry.” He socked her arm. “Mrs. Ferguson told me what I could put in them. She changed a few things before I printed them for you.”

“Wow.” She beamed at him. “She would know. This is, well, it’s just...” She realized she was about to cry.

“Please don’t do that.” He screwed up his face in distaste. “I mean,
really.
It’s no big thing, okay? I did it for me, to see if I could, that’s all. No big deal. I—”

She waved him to silence. “It’s just very nice. Whatever you say.”

“So it’s nice. I can be nice. It’s possible. And I read the one she wrote for you, and it was stupid.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“She’s okay, I guess, but old Georgie-girl’s not much of a writer. You needed real stories. Only it’s hard to write things you can read right now.”

“I’m catching on quickly,” she said, “but I’m still so limited. It’s frustrating.”

“I guess the more you practice, the better, right?”

“So are you going to help me read one today?”

“I have time, if you do.”

“Come sit on the glider with me, then.”

“Just so you don’t try any funny stuff.”

She laughed. “You’re too young for me, Dawson.”

“Just so you remember.”

* * *

An hour later she walked him down the hill to his pickup. She couldn’t believe how much fun they’d had. Dawson’s story was wonderful, with a king who couldn’t find his crown, and a girl who rescued him over and over but refused to become his queen. She’d had trouble with some words, but she’d been able to figure out most of them on her own. Dawson had helped her write the ones she hadn’t been able to read, and then they linked them with pictures to help her memory when she read the story by herself again.

All in all, she was proud.

“You still mix up letters,” Dawson said. “That has to be frustrating.”

“I know what they are, but then I look at them, and they just fly out of my head.”

“I brought something else for you to see. I don’t want you to be mad. I don’t think you’re stupid or anything. But, well, this is how I learned my letters as a little kid. So I thought you might want to...”

They were at the pickup now, Beau circling while he barked at two butterflies who refused to be herded toward the truck. She waited while Dawson opened the driver’s door and reached across for a shopping bag. When he stepped out, he pulled something from it, shaking out the folds.

She saw the object was a quilt, a well-loved one, by the look of it. Tattered and worn and baby-sized. Every block was a letter of the alphabet.

Dawson held it out so she could see it up close. “My mother quilts. She’s, like, amazing, if you like that kind of stuff. She made this for me before I was born. Every letter’s out of some fabric you can feel when you touch it. Fake fur or corduroy or satin. Some of them didn’t hold up very well, as you can see. But as a little kid I’d trace them with my fingers, which was the point, I guess. And she’d tell me what they were.”

“And you thought I might need to feel your old quilt to learn my letters?”

“No, I thought you might like to make one for your baby. She told me how she did it. You iron this stuff on the back of the fabric and cut out the letters, then you iron the letters on. After you sew the blocks together, you go around the letters with thread so they’ll stay flat after the quilt’s been washed and all. Then you back the whole thing with fleece or flannel, and you have a quilt. And while you’re doing it, you’re thinking about the letters and feeling them, and maybe it helps you remember.”

She looked up from the quilt, which she’d unconsciously been running through her fingers. “I’m going to see him this weekend, on Sunday.” In a way it felt good to say it, to make it clear to somebody that she was about to do her part and visit her son. At the same time her stomach began to clench.

“He’s probably the right age to enjoy a quilt like this. He could look at the letters up close, rub his hands over them....”

“But I could never do something like this without help.”

“Mom says she’ll help. She’s got a million scraps, and you can do the work by hand. She loves teaching. Even if the baby isn’t living with you, it would be something he could have that you’d made for him.”

“Your mother knows I have a son but I’m not married? Maybe she’s not as limited as you say. Maybe she sees more than right or wrong.”

“Or maybe she just wants to bring you over to the right side of her book of good and evil. Anyway, she said she would help.”

“Dawson, you’re kind of outdoing yourself today. You’d better be careful. You might end up on the right side of her book, too.”

“I don’t think that’s in the cards.”

She didn’t ask what he meant. She had a feeling he would tell her when he was ready.

“You’ll set up a time for me to come down and meet her?” she asked.

“Can I call you?”

She told him the number at the house, and he punched it into his cell phone.

“Thank you for all this,” she said. “You’re turning into a good friend.”

“Don’t count on that lasting.”

“Why would you say something like that?”

“Because nothing ever does.” He got into the pickup and started the engine. She held Beau at her side as the truck backed up and turned around, and she stood there for a long time and wondered about Dawson Nedley.

It was nice to worry about somebody else for a change. She was glad she still could.

Chapter Thirty

NOBODY COULD LOOK
at Cristy and assume she was simply another young woman on a well-lighted path to a happy future. Her eyes were too haunted. She smiled too rarely, and when she did, the smile often came a beat late. But Georgia thought that in the two months since her release, there had been changes. Cristy held herself differently, as if she wasn’t waiting for an intruder to sneak up behind her, and she thrust her shoulders back, as if she was willing to face whatever was waiting in front of her.

Best yet, nothing topped the remarkable progress she was making on her reading. Her natural intelligence linked with a Herculean effort was making all the difference. Georgia couldn’t remember another student who had progressed so quickly.

Now, at the end of their Wednesday tutoring session at BCAS, Georgia closed her notebook. “You’re doing a remarkable job. I can’t imagine it’s even possible to go faster. I can hardly keep up.”

Cristy looked delighted. “Dawson’s stories help, and he tells me he’s written another one.”

Dawson had been to see Georgia that afternoon. He’d mentioned a desire to change the subject of his independent study from tattoos to dyslexia, the first sign she’d seen that the boy had swerved, at least temporarily, from his desire to shock or alienate everyone he came in contact with.

“You lit a fire under him, something I’ve tried to do all year,” Georgia said.

“He really has a problem with his parents. We have that in common. They don’t get him, not the way you get Samantha. Not the way I want to get my children.” She seemed to realize what she’d said. “Of course, listen to me. I do have a son I don’t get, don’t I?”

Georgia couldn’t believe she’d been given an opening to talk about Michael. “How’s that going?”

“I’ve seen him twice. Once this past weekend on my own, and once with the man who arrested me.”

That intrigued Georgia. “Really?”

Cristy gave a short nod. “He feels guilty for being part of what happened.”

“He’s told you this?”

“As much as. Sully’s aware what a creep Jackson is, and he knows Jackson’s capable of almost anything, including framing me for something I didn’t do.”

Georgia didn’t know what to say. She and the other goddesses were reaching out to Cristy simply because she needed their assistance. Helping the girl had nothing to do with her guilt or innocence.

As time had gone by, though, Georgia’s opinion on that had changed, and now she thought it was past time to set the record straight.

“It’s good to feel like somebody almost believes me now,” Cristy said.

“Almost?”

“He’s still a deputy. He can’t come right out and say it.” She seemed to shrink into herself a little. “It would be nice if he could, though.”

Georgia rested her hand on Cristy’s knee. “I want you to know something. I’ve never felt whether you stole the ring mattered very much. But I’m a good judge of people. I have to be. And as I’ve gotten to know you, I’ve seen how hard you try to do the right thing, even under the worst of circumstances. So I believe you when you say you didn’t steal it. My opinion doesn’t change a thing, but I just want you to know I don’t think you’ve been lying.”

Cristy’s hand covered Georgia’s for an instant and she squeezed. “Thank you,” she said, and immediately had to clear her throat.

Georgia sat back, because now she had to slowly feel her way. “But if someone frames you for a crime, then they must have a good reason. Do you know why this man Jackson would do something so terrible?”

Cristy gave another nod, but this one wasn’t followed by an explanation.

“It’s a major crime. It must be a major reason,” Georgia probed.

Finally the young woman answered. “Have you ever been faced with a choice so awful, no matter what you do, somebody’s going to be hurt and hurt terribly?”

Georgia hadn’t expected a question Analiese Wagner would be more comfortable answering.

“We’ve all been faced with difficult choices,” she said carefully. “This one? Sounds worse than that.”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“I think maybe you
need
to talk to somebody who deals in exactly those kinds of things.”

“A shrink?”

“A minister. A good one. Analiese.”

She watched as Cristy’s eyes narrowed. “Why, so she can quote Bible verses and twist them like pretzels?”

Georgia, who was not, albeit, a churchgoer herself, still knew that Analiese would never do either of those things.

“She’s not like your father. She’s nothing like him, in fact. She’s a great listener. I hope you’ll give that some thought.”

As if she had reached an overload on sharing, Cristy opened her purse and pulled out the sketch she’d made of the charm bracelet, unfolding it and setting it on the table between them. “I’ll think about it,” she said in a tone that implied the opposite. “But right now I have something else I want to talk about. Is that okay?”

Georgia saw Cristy needed a break and it was now her own turn to be on the hot seat. “I have time.”

“I’ve been studying this and thinking about the charms. And last night I was looking at this one.” She turned the paper around so Georgia could see the charm in question. “The horse.”

“Right. We guessed maybe she liked to ride. Lots of girls do.”

“It could be that, but see the way the horse is rearing? That’s not a horse any teenage girl wants to ride unless she’s planning to be a cowgirl.”

To Georgia a horse was a horse, and a teenage girl was a teenage girl. She’d put them together in her mind and come up with someone who’d taken a few riding lessons.

“So what do you think that is?”

“A mascot. Like the UGA bulldog charm. Only this one could be from her high school. And maybe the horse rearing that way? That’s the way the horse was portrayed on uniforms, or pep rally flags.”

“I like this idea. Let’s tell Lucas tonight.”

“Lucas?”

“We need a celebration.”

Cristy looked as if she had expected anything but that. “Why?”

“Because you’re my best student ever, and we need to celebrate. He suggested we go out for barbecue this evening. Why don’t you come? You can come home with me, then we’ll head over to the restaurant when it’s time.”

“Oh, I can’t. I’m going to Dawson’s to meet his mom. She’s going to help me make a baby quilt. For Michael.”

Georgia thought that was an interesting development. Another example of Dawson’s humanity on display. Another example of Cristy trying to be a good mother.

“Then you can
both
come. I’ll tell you where the restaurant is. If you’re worried about driving up Doggett Mountain after dark, you can stay in my guest room tonight. Then you can go home early in the morning in time for your shift at the B and B.”

“Beau has to be fed, and he might wander off if I don’t come home. So thanks, but if it does get dark, I’ll just drive carefully.”

Georgia knew better than to argue. She’d just told Cristy she believed her story about the ring. Now she had to show faith in her judgment. “We’ll eat early. Lucas has been in Atlanta teaching a class, so he’ll be tired himself.”

They made arrangements to meet at the restaurant at six so Cristy could leave for the Goddess House while there was still light.

Georgia sat quietly for a few minutes after Cristy left and wondered if she had said anything of value that afternoon. Had she been right to tell her she believed her story about the ring? Should she have trusted her intuition, or left the subject strictly alone?

When she had agreed to be a goddess, she had honestly thought she might have something to offer other women. Now she realized what a huge and frightening commitment she had made.

* * *

Dawson had his mother’s dark hair and eyes, but he was already a good eight inches taller, though they probably weighed roughly the same. Wilma Nedley and Cristy’s mother were of the same generation, but Candy Haviland paid close attention to the way she looked. She was conscious of her role in the community, or the one she perceived as hers, and she dressed accordingly.

Dawson’s mom wore lipstick and earrings, but they looked like afterthoughts, as if she had remembered when she was in the middle of something more important. Her smile looked perfectly natural, though.

“So you’re Cristy. We are just
so
glad Dawson’s made a new friend.” On the front doorstep Mrs. Nedley extended her hand, and they shook. Cristy made certain not to look at Dawson, who was probably rolling his eyes. Last week she’d asked him if that was an exercise an optometrist had given him to boost his vision, because he did it so frequently.

“Thanks for inviting me,” she said. “Dawson showed me his baby quilt. It’s super-cute.”

Mrs. Nedley stepped aside so Cristy could enter. “Did he tell you I had to steal it away from him when he was two? He was just too attached to it. His daddy said it was time to toughen him up so he would be a little man.”

Cristy tried to imagine Berdine doing something so thoughtlessly cruel in the name of masculinity. She realized that would never happen. Wayne might love guns, football and construction, but he had a squishy, sentimental heart.

“Well...” Cristy’s smile was frozen in place. She couldn’t think of another thing to say.

“She used to sneak it back into my room when I was sick,” Dawson said, as if trying to absolve his mother.

“Later I made him a real quilt to put on his bed,” Mrs. Nedley said.

“Camouflage,” Dawson muttered.

“Along with deer and trout and all kinds of wonderful little-boy things.”

“You know, in case I had the urge to hunt something in my sleep.” Dawson motioned Cristy into the living room, and she followed, wishing she had found another way to spend her afternoon.

“I’ll go upstairs and get my supplies,” Mrs. Nedley said from the doorway. “I’ve put together a sewing kit, and I have bags of fabric you can look through.” She disappeared back into the hall.

Cristy lowered her voice and told him about their dinner invitation.

“Can I just keep going afterward?” he asked.

She didn’t know what to say. She’d been in the house less than five minutes, and she already understood what Dawson was forced to face every day of his life.

He read her expression. “Of the two of them? She’s by far the best. The instructions come down from my father, and my mother complies. It’s easier that way, especially since my brother died. She deals with Ricky’s absence by being the perfect wife and mother.”

“Will I meet your father, too?”

“I’m sure he’ll be up to the house to get me for something. Quilting is for women, so he won’t see any need for me to stay
here.
”

That was exactly the way the rest of the afternoon went. Mrs. Nedley returned with two plastic bags of scraps, a sewing kit and something called fusible bond. Mr. Nedley, tall like his son, but with lighter hair and a round, pleasant face, arrived to tell Dawson he needed his help mending a section of fence. He didn’t demand; he couldn’t have been more cheerful. But it was clear he wasn’t going to leave without Dawson, and just as clear that even though Dawson was having fun pawing through the scraps, there was no reason to let him continue.

By the time they were ready to leave for the restaurant, Cristy couldn’t wait to get away. She liked Dawson’s mother—in fact she liked her a lot more than she had expected to—but once Dawson and Mr. Nedley were gone, Mrs. Nedley’s smile had disappeared, as if she just couldn’t continue pretending that everything was wonderful.

At the end of their session she’d looked up from teaching Cristy how to apply fusible web to the fabrics she had chosen for the letters. “Dawson doesn’t bring friends home anymore. It was different when his brother was alive. We were a different family.” She had smiled a sadder smile than any Cristy had seen. “Maybe things are beginning to change.”

In her car on the way to Luella’s, where they were meeting Georgia and Lucas, Cristy wasn’t sure what to say. She finally recited the obvious. “Your mom took a lot of time with me today and taught me everything I’ll need to do. She was so generous.”

“I can’t help her.”

She didn’t have to ask what he meant. She pictured three people drowning in a lake. Separately. Knowing that if they tried to hold on to each other, they would sink faster. The image broke her heart.

He turned to look out the window. “I only remember her getting angry at my father one time, when he refused to have
Beloved Son
engraved on my brother’s headstone. He said Ricky was a soldier who died in the line of duty, and that was the only thing the world needs to know.”

“Hard-core.”

“She said Ricky’s family cared more about him than a bunch of overzealous patriots. They hardly spoke for a week.”

“Who won?”

“She gave in.”

A few minutes later they arrived at the restaurant and found Georgia and Lucas, heads together, laughing about something. Cristy paused before they saw her and watched.

“What’s with them?” Dawson asked.

“I think it’s pretty obvious, don’t you?”

“Little old matchmaker me.”

“It’s nice to see people happy together.”

“Yeah, it’s so freakin’ rare.”

Georgia looked up and smiled, beckoning them over. “We were just trying to figure out which luscious thing on the menu we should order. Want to get a bunch of different things and sample?”

Cristy slid into the booth, which was flanked by a window overlooking the parking lot. “Bet Dawson will eat everybody’s portion.”

He nudged her with his hip, and she scooted over so he could slide all the way in.

“You two look happy,” Lucas said.

“Dawson’s mom taught me how to make a baby quilt. Dawson set it up. Isn’t he just the sweetest thing?”

Dawson groaned and punched her arm.

Georgia laughed as she handed the menu to Cristy. “Tell us what you want.”

Cristy sobered. She looked at Georgia, then the menu. “But I can’t—”

“You can read well enough to figure that out. You can guess what’s on it, and you’re far enough along that your guesses will make sense now.”

Cristy knew a hurdle had been placed in her path. She felt cold inside.