Last Chance Christmas Page 7

  “Right. But how did you end up staying at Hettie’s river house?”

  Lark shrugged. “I gather Hettie had some kind of experience at Golfing for God that rivaled my father’s. She said she could understand why my father used to say that he ‘found himself’ there.”

  A little laugh escaped him. “I’m sure Hettie’s experience was religious. I’m not sure that’s what happened to your father. Not after reading that article he wrote in The New Yorker about how God is our nation’s biggest problem.”

  She turned and gave him a cool gaze. “Wow, you subscribe to The New Yorker? Really?”

  Her words were more teasing than sarcastic. And he probably deserved the jibe given that stupid thing he’d said yesterday morning about how she was a “fool Yankee.” Actually, after looking at her photos, he realized she was quite a bit more than that.

  “Look, I’m sorry about that stupid thing I said yesterday. I guess we all have our blind spots.”

  He suddenly felt guilty even though he knew he shouldn’t. It was his job to check up on people. Still, he knew she wasn’t a troublemaker. Her photos captured the best of people in the worst of situations. That took a real talent and an ability to know what was important.

  “I saw your photographs,” he said quietly. “They are amazing, and… well, moving.”

  “Thank you.”

  He turned around, feeling a little awkward and even embarrassed for reasons he couldn’t explain. He cast his line again, looking to recapture his balance.

  Lark leaned her back on the railing beside him and seemed to settle into the silence in a way that no woman he’d ever known had ever been able to do. She would be good as a fishing buddy, he thought. And then realized the absurdity of that thought.

  Minutes passed, and he became consciously aware of her scent and her breathing and her presence. She said not one word, and it was almost ironic that he was the one to break the silence. “So, are you going to be staying until Christmas?”

  “Don’t know. Hettie told me she would try to talk your father into letting me fulfill Pop’s last request. Hettie also encouraged me to talk with Nita Wills.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Is there something about Nita I should know?”

  “Well, first off she’s out of town until Thursday. She’s at some meeting of librarians up in Columbia. And second, she doesn’t like talking about what happened forty years ago.”

  “Well, that hardly makes her unique. But thanks for tipping me off.”

  He lapsed into silence again, casting his line and trying to look at her out of the corner of his eye so she wouldn’t be aware of his scrutiny. What was it about this woman? She got within three feet of him and it was like his hormones woke up. And his hormones had been sleeping for a long, long time.

  After at least two minutes of complete silence, she asked, “So, is fishing part of your job?”

  “I come out here sometimes, when I have something I need to think about.” Damn. Why had he told her that?

  “It’s really quiet out here. You can almost hear your thoughts.”

  Was she reading his mind? “Uh, something like that, yeah.”

  He cast his line again. He suddenly wanted to ask her what she was thinking. His thoughts had taken a strange flight of fancy. He’d come out here mad as hell at Dr. Newsome. But he wasn’t mad anymore. His reaction to Lark’s presence underscored the gist of Dr. Newsome’s final recommendation.

  Lark drew in a deep breath. “Uh, look, I’d like to apologize for being here. It wasn’t exactly my choice, you know? I mean, what would you do if your father asked you to do something crazy?”

  He finished reeling in the line, then leaned the fishing pole against the railing. He turned toward her and rested his hip against the railing. “I actually understand how it can be, having a parent who’s a little different. I mean, my father runs a putt-putt dedicated to God.”

  She chuckled. “Yeah. I guess that’s pretty unusual. And speaking of different, Chief Rhodes, do you always fish without bait? It’s kind of a novel idea, really. You get to fish and be quiet and do your thinking without having to clean fish or throw any back.”

  He stood there staring at her. In a couple of sentences, she’d managed to sum up his entire philosophy of fishing without bait. And she hardly knew him. Everyone else in town worried about him when he came out here and dropped a line in the river. But this woman got it. How was that possible?

  “What?” she said, cocking her head.

  “You understand about the bait. I’m kind of surprised.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know a thing about fishing. But I’ve seen those fishing shows on TV. And I always thought it was kind of crazy to throw back fish you spent hours catching. But using your method, you can avoid all that and still get in your fishing time.”

  She tilted her head up toward the morning sun and closed her eyes. The silence grew deep and intimate.

  So intimate, in fact, that he felt a sudden need to explain himself. Not because he was embarrassed, but because he suddenly wanted her to understand. “I do my best thinking out here.”

  “I think people need a place to think. My father was a window starer when he wanted to think.”

  “Window starer?”

  She opened her eyes and gazed at him. “He used to stare out the window for hours on end. When he was staring, he didn’t like it when I made noise. I guess that’s how I learned to sneak up on people, which is a great skill to have when you’re a photographer. Pop did a lot of window staring after Mom died. I was just a kid, and I learned my lesson well.”

  A person could get lost in those brown eyes of hers. “How old were you when your mother died?”

  “About six.”

  Connection tugged at his chest. “My daughter, Lizzy, was nine when my wife died. Haley, my younger girl, was just two. She was actually in the car when it happened. Thank God she wasn’t hurt.”

  “Wait a second. Your wife died?” She pointedly looked at his wedding band.

  A jolt of surprise edged through him as he consciously touched the ring with his thumb. “You mean Miriam and the girls didn’t tell you? That would be an absolute first. They’ve been trying to match me up with anything in skirts.” He gave her fatigues a little glance.

  He expected her to give him one of her snarky comeback lines, but instead she said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “And I’m sorry for yours,” he replied. “Do you mind my asking how you coped with this silent father of yours?”

  “I made up an imaginary friend.”

  A moment of vertigo hit him. Of all the answers she might have handed him, that one was a huge surprise. It almost made him wonder if Providence had sent her there just to give him some advice. “Tell me about your friend,” he said. He could hear the urgency in his own voice.

  “Oh, that’s easy. His name was Carmine Falcone.”

  Stone blinked. “But that’s the name of—”

  “Yeah, I know. Pop co-opted him after he realized that Carmine was strong and brave and handsome and in charge. He used to joke to his editor that I made up someone with all the qualities that Pop lacked.”

  He stared at her for the longest moment, wondering if there were any parallels to be drawn between himself and a weeping angel. He was not a man who liked to cry, that was for damn sure.

  She laughed. It was a deep, rich sound. “Man, you’ve got the funniest look on your face. I know what I just said seems mean, but it was kind of true. Pop checked out for a while after Mom died, and I made up Carmine to help me feel safe. Pop figured it out, though. And once he did, he included Carmine in everything we did. He used to set a place at the table for him, not that Carmine liked Pop’s cooking. And then he started writing stories about him. Pretty soon Carmine wasn’t all that real anymore.”

  “I’m sorry for prying, but you see my younger daughter, Haley, has an imaginary angel. To be honest, I’m not inclined to set a place for the angel at
the dinner table. I’d like the angel to disappear.”

  Her eyes softened. “I don’t think wishing her away is going to work.”

  “You got a better idea?”

  “No. I don’t. But my imaginary friend disappeared the minute Pop spent a little more time with me.”

  “You sound like my daughter’s shrink. She thinks Haley’s problems are my fault. She says I need grief counseling.”

  “Maybe you do.”

  “How old were you when you got over your imaginary friend?”

  She looked away for a moment before she spoke, as if she was weighing whether to tell him the truth. That worried him a little.

  “Well,” she said at last, “I stopped talking to him when I was about ten. But Pop never got over him because he became the hero of all Pop’s books.” He could sense the sorrow in her words. She was grieving for her father. He probably shouldn’t have pushed her.

  Or maybe she just needed someone to talk to.

  To be honest, Dr. Newsome had a point. He needed to talk out some things, too. But not to some therapist. He’d much rather talk to Lark. She seemed to understand even without him explaining stuff.

  They fell into a warm and comfortable silence. He turned and leaned his hands on the railing and watched the river. They stood side by each, not touching. He was aware of everything about her. Her heat, the way the sunlight turned her hair red, her smallness next to him.

  Eventually, he broke the quiet. “So did your father ever remarry?”

  “No. He wasn’t very good at letting things go.”

  “Well, I guess I get that. You know, everyone keeps telling me I need to move on. Find another relationship. But I’m not good at change. I’m not even sure I know how to do a relationship. I got married when I was eighteen.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not good at relationships either. I’m always on the move. I really don’t have a home.” She turned around and placed her hand over his. Her palm was warm and small. “Don’t worry too much about Haley’s angel. Just give your daughter some attention, and eventually she’ll let the angel go. And if you want to talk about it, you know where to find me.”

  “Until you leave.”

  “Until I leave.”

  She gave his hand a little squeeze that practically branded his skin. Then she turned and headed back up to Hettie’s house. He watched her go, surprised that a woman wearing fatigues and boots could look so desirable. And right then it occurred to him that he no longer wished to run Lark Chaikin out of town.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Lark spent the rest of the day researching the events of 1968.

  A call to the public library confirmed that Nita Wills wouldn’t be back at work until the day after tomorrow.

  A trip to Orangeburg to search the Times and Democrat’s news archives on the coverage of Ezekiel Rhodes’s death proved pointless because there simply was no coverage of it. There wasn’t any coverage about Pop’s decision to take an African-American to a segregated diner either.

  She asked a few questions around town at the post office, the yarn shop, and the hardware store, where Stone’s younger brother was decidedly hostile. She got nothing.

  The citizens of Last Chance either didn’t remember what happened in 1968 or didn’t want to talk about it. And she sure got the feeling that no one really wanted her to be there asking questions about the past.

  It was after three o’clock when Lark finally stopped in at the Kountry Kitchen for a late lunch. As usual, she’d been so focused on her research that she’d forgotten to eat and now was ravenously hungry.

  She took a booth near the back, ordered a hamburger, and watched the ebb and flow of the customers. At three-forty-five, the place was overrun by teenagers, no doubt students from Davis High, based on the sweatshirts and letter jackets prominently displayed.

  It might have been the 1950s, based on the number of milk shakes ordered and delivered, except for the fact that the kids at the counter were a diverse bunch. It struck Lark that in a small way, Pop had contributed to this scene playing out in front of her.

  Lark found herself staring at one of the students—a coltish, dark-haired girl with green eyes. She looked vaguely familiar. And after staring at her for a few moments, it became obvious that the girl was just as curious about Lark. Eventually the girl excused herself from the group she’d been sitting with, picked up her soda, and headed in Lark’s direction.

  “Excuse me,” the girl said. “I was wondering, are you Lark Chaikin?”

  “I am.”

  The girl slid into the facing seat. “Hi. I’m Liz Rhodes, and I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.”

  “You’re Chief Rhodes’s older daughter.”

  The girl’s cheeks colored. “Yeah. And he’d probably have a seizure or something if he knew I was talking to you.”

  “Really? That’s interesting.”

  “You do know that Daddy totally wants to run you off?”

  “I got that impression. I’ve been trying to decide if he’s prejudiced against Yankees or just suspicious of anyone new in town.”

  Liz smiled, and it changed her face. Whoever her mother had been, she must have been some kind of beauty. “Daddy’s not prejudiced against anyone in particular. He was in the marines and, unlike a lot of folks in town, he traveled the world before he ended up here. But he is kind of overprotective.”

  “I noticed. It’s actually one of the things I like about him.”

  Liz cocked her head. “You don’t hate him?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because he’s not helping you. He’s totally sided with Granddaddy.”

  “I get the feeling that most folks in town have sided with your grandfather. It’s discouraging to know that everyone thinks my father is responsible for Zeke Rhodes’s death.”

  “Oh, but you’re wrong. There are plenty of people in town who think your father was a hero.”

  “People like Nita Wills?”

  Liz rolled her eyes. “Well, duh. Of course Nita Wills. And a lot of the African-Americans who live in town, and even some white folks, too. Granddaddy’s just mad because of what happened to my great-grandfather. He needs to have someone to blame.”

  Lark gazed at the kids at the counter. “You know, it seems to me that Last Chance is doing an okay job of trying to get over its history. I’ve been sitting here thinking that it’s probably wrong for me to shake things up. I’m not like my father, you know.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I think it’s time for someone to shake things up a little more. Like, for instance, some of us are tired of going to a school named Jefferson Davis High. I mean it’s historical and all, but for some it’s totally offensive.”

  “I see.”

  “And don’t get me wrong, there’s a group of kids who want to rename the school Obama High, but that’s not going to happen either. My thought was to just call the place Last Chance High. I think it has a ring to it, don’t you?”

  Lark couldn’t help but laugh. “I guess it does.”

  Liz leaned in. “Did your father tell you anything about those times? About how it felt to walk in here when Clyde Anderson used to own the place?”

  “I’m afraid not. In fact, I was completely surprised when Pop asked me to have his ashes scattered here. I didn’t know anything about what happened in 1968 until I got here. Can you tell me anything? I know you weren’t born yet, but what stories have you heard?”

  Liz shook her head. “Not many, only the ones from my grandfather, who thinks Abe was a troublemaker.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth Pop was a troublemaker. He loved controversy. Maybe that’s why he wanted me to bring him back here. He just wanted to stir the pot a little more.”

  “You think?” Liz’s gaze wandered away toward her friends and a certain brown-eyed boy. Lark could almost see the wheels turning in the young girl’s head.

  “I’m afraid that’s the most likely explanation,” Lark said. />
  Liz turned and peered at Lark from behind her bangs. “So, uh, before my father runs you off, I was wondering if maybe I could schedule a time to interview you for the school paper?”

  “You’re a writer?” Lark asked.

  Liz’s eyes sparked with passion. “I’d like to be. I thought it might be cool to get an interview with you because, you know, we don’t get Pulitzer Prize–winning photojournalists in town very often. And I think the kids in school would be totally interested to hear about what it’s like to be a journalist in a war zone. And I read that you were in Libya during the revolution when that TV Journalist, Jeb Smith, was killed.”

  A sudden swift headache knifed through her temples. Please, no flashbacks. She sucked in air and forced herself to focus on Lizzy’s young and innocent face. She grabbed her soda with both hands to keep them from trembling.

  Man, she was screwed up.

  “Uh, I don’t want to talk about Jeb,” she managed to say.

  Lizzy nodded. “I understand. But it would still be cool if you could talk about what it’s like to be embedded with our troops.”

  No, it would not be cool.

  She wanted to grab the kid by her sweatshirt and shake some sense into her. But that wouldn’t be a smart move, given that her father was chief of police. Besides, the kid was only curious, the way all kids were. At her age, Lark had been curious, too. And professional photographers had helped her along in her career. Jeb had been one of them. Jeb had been a mentor way before he became a friend and colleague.

  With that thought firmly in mind, Lark nodded and said, “How about tomorrow? We can meet here, if you like.”

  Liz nodded and smiled. “Cool. But let’s meet at the doughnut shop across the street, next to the Cut ’n Curl. It’s quieter there.”

  “Okay. What time?”

  “Quarter to four. And if you don’t mind, I’m going to bring one of the photographers from the paper, too. He totally wants to meet you.”

  Lark nodded, not at all eager to be interviewed. But maybe it was a good way to face her fears. She needed to stop hiding from what had happened to her in Misurata.

  Stone cruised down Palmetto Avenue late in the afternoon. The weather hadn’t yet turned, the town was quiet as a tomb, and he was thinking about this morning at the river, talking with Lark.