Wynn in Doubt (14 page)

I wish he would kiss me now, so I wouldn’t need to say any more. “She hurt her family.”

“She did.”

“She ran away.”

“Yes.” He places a light kiss on my mouth. “Is that what you think you’re doing? Running away?”

His words unsettle me. “Yes.”

He leans forward, and I close my eyes. His lips press gently against my forehead, then the bridge of my nose, then the apple of both cheeks. “You’re not running from anything. You’re running toward something.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re looking for answers. People who run away don’t look back.” He raises an eyebrow. His smile is tender, gentle. He has experience leaving. Moving on. “Whatever your family believes, you know there’s more to her story.”

“But what if—”

He quiets me with a kiss. “No more what-ifs.”

I pull my arm away and touch his face. “Sometimes I can’t believe you’re really here.” I rub my thumb across his lips, tracing his smile as I did the letters carved in the tree. “Would you do something for me?”

“Anything.” I know he means it.

“Sing to me.”

His laugh is quiet. He shakes his head. “You had to ask for that, didn’t you?”

I run my fingers through his hair. “I wasn’t trying to trick you.”

“I know. I want to, and I will, just not yet.”

“This from the man who doesn’t believe in putting things off?” I tease.

Oliver places his hand over mine on the blanket. There’s something tired in the way he looks at me. As though he’s exhausted. “I feel like I’ve been trying so hard to make something fit, I’ve damaged it.”

I know what he’s saying. Every day I force myself to live a life that doesn’t feel right. I want it to, and I try my best to make things work, but you can’t be something you’re not—at least, not forever. But he and I are not the same. He’s bold, fearless in what he wants.

I lean forward and place a kiss on his cheek. “You’re going to be okay.”

The rain has died away. We’ll need to leave soon. For now I let the weight of his hand press against mine. He’s quiet so long that when he answers me, I have to think back to what I said.

“Thank you,” he says, pulling me close. “Thank you.”

twelve

“You all packed?” Oliver grabs the handle of my suitcase and pulls it toward him across the bed.

“Yeah. Hey, have you seen my phone?”

“On the nightstand.” He opens the door, and early morning sun bathes the room.

I spot the black phone beneath our map. The weatherproof pages are bulky from an improper fold. I spread it out on the red-and-gold comforter and refold it carefully. A green-and-white placard is printed across the top, declaring it property of the Kentucky Historical Society. Oliver returns to the room, and I hold the map up so he can see.

“Did you steal this?”

“What?” The word is overly exaggerated. “Of course not. What kind of rock star do you think I am, stealing government property?” He busies himself throwing the remnants of our breakfast, which consisted of dry cereal, yogurt, and coffee, in the trash can.

“Oliver.” I cringe. I sound just like my mother.

“Wynn,” he imitates. He can’t hold the innocent look on his face. “Okay, I took it, but I didn’t steal it.”

I wait.

“Honestly. That receptionist told me I could borrow it.”

“Huh.” I slap the pages against my side. Enjoying the way he squirms when put on the spot. “Borrowing usually implies that you intend to return it.”

“It does.” He crosses his arms and nods in agreement.

“But we’re not going back to Frankfort. Are we?”

He raises a finger in the air. “A technicality for which I cannot be held responsible.”

I throw the map at him. A mistake. He bounds around the bed, picks me up, throws me on the mattress, and tickles my sides. My body aches from laughter after only seconds. I really should learn to pick my battles with him.

“Uncle!” I scream, and he withdraws his fingers, only to wind them around my wrists, which he holds over my head.

“I love it when you use your strict teacher voice,” he murmurs against my throat.

“Oh yeah?” I move my hips beneath him.

“Yeah. Say something else.” He drags his lips up my neck, sending a thrill through me.

I can barely think with the length of his body pressed against mine. “Mr. Reeves, I think you need detention.”

His groan, mixed with a deep laugh, vibrates through me. “More,” he begs.

I tease his earlobe with my tongue. “I think you need to be punished for stealing. Come and stand at my desk.”

He moves his hips, trying to part my thighs. A loud bang, like a car backfiring, makes us both jump. The door to the hotel room is still open, and I hear voices outside. They’re close.

Oliver hangs his head momentarily, then rolls off me, pulling on the front of his pants. He bends his knees and throws an arm over his face. “I’m going to need a minute.”

I kiss his cheek and get up. As I approach the door, a young woman passes by with a little girl and boy in tow. They’re arguing loudly, and the boy is trying to take something from the girl. Her hair is dark brown, like mine, and she’s wearing it in pigtails. The object of their fight is a small pink book. The woman turns and snatches it out of their dueling hands.

“I told you both to stop fighting. Now no one gets the book.” She looks up and notices me in the doorway.

I smile, not wanting her to think I’m eavesdropping.

“Sorry,” she says, putting the book in an orange canvas bag, the kind you take to the beach.

“Oh, no problem.” I look down at the small faces staring up at me. “I like your pigtails,” I say, bending to place my hands on my knees.

“Fanks,” she says, her mouth wobbling dangerously in a frown. She points a chubby finger at the boy. “He tried to take my dairy.”

“Your dairy?” I look up at the woman, who I presume to be their mother.

She rolls her eyes. “Her
diary
,” she explains.

“Oh,” I say. The girl’s eyes are a light brown, ringed in green and swimming with unshed tears. “I understand. Diaries are very personal.”

“Yeah,” she says, shoving her brother in the shoulder. He sticks his tongue out at her and then at me.

I wave good-bye to both as their mother ushers them forward, warning them to behave or they won’t get to play in the pool. I straighten, and an idea takes hold of me so firmly, I nearly lose my balance. Oliver, who must’ve seen this, jumps up and comes to stand beside me, placing his hand beneath my elbow.

“Are you okay?”

I nod, walking slowly to the bed.

“What happened? You look pale.”

I touch the polyester of the bedspread, not even realizing I sat down. I look at my hand. I didn’t notice the pattern on the bedspread before. The dots connect slowly in my mind. Red roses lined in gold. Red flowers . . . I saw a similar pattern yesterday, one with red, pink, and blue flowers sewn on the binding of a book.

Oliver’s face is lined with worry. “What is it?”

I can’t stop tracing the flower beneath my hand. “We need to go back to the house.”

The green car is parked in the same spot as yesterday. Oliver pulls in beside it, removes the key from the ignition, and hands it to me. I was too nervous to drive.
What if I’m wrong?

My hands are shaking and he covers them with one of his. “You ready?”

No. Yes. I’ve got so many thoughts running through my mind, I can hardly think. My stomach is in knots, but the pulling sensation is stronger. I look past Oliver, out the window, and take a deep breath before nodding. He squeezes my hands and releases me, then steps out of the car. I pull myself from the passenger’s seat slowly, almost high with excitement. My heart is beating a thousand beats a minute, like I’ve run a marathon.

He waits for me to come around and places his hand on my back. I’m grateful to him. Not only for the strength he’s lent me during this trip, but also because when I told him about the idea that had struck me in the hotel room, he didn’t laugh. In fact, the look he gave me said he believed I might be right.

The porch creaks beneath us. Oliver pulls open the door, and I step again into the Craigs’s home. Lola’s home. Footsteps click across the floor from the hallway. Carlan appears and smiles, clearly remembering us. I don’t suppose the house gets too many visitors. Especially ones that show up twice in less than two days.

“Well, hello again.” He offers each of us his hand. “What brings you two back so soon?”

“We were hoping to have another look around,” Oliver says, dropping his handshake. He’s using the same voice on Carlan he used on Kathleen from the Historical Society.

“Of course, of course.” The curator moves around us. I see a new crossword puzzle folded in his back pocket. “Say, did you two make it out to Eby’s place?”

I’m too full of energy to adopt Oliver’s casual tone, so I let him continue to do the talking. “We did, and thank you for the information.”

Carlan tilts his head to one side, looking keenly at us. “Was he able to give you the information you were looking for?”

“He did. It was pretty amazing, actually,” Oliver says.

“Good. Yep, there’s still an old-timer or two in this town that can weave a story. I’m glad he was up and around. That grandson of his is a rascal, ain’t he?”

Oliver and I look at each other and share a small laugh. His presence steadies me, and my intuition makes me feel strong and sure of myself. “He was quite interesting,” I say.

Carlan chuckles into his fist. “I’ll tell you. That boy is crazier than a cat in love with a dog. But I’m glad you got some questions answered. Go on and have another look around. I’ll be on the porch with my puzzle.” He pulls the paper from his back pocket, waving it at us as he leaves through the front door.

We remain standing, half-facing each other, both waiting for the other to make the first move. Excitement, fear, anticipation, hope . . . I try to tame my smile, try to reel it in, in case I’m wrong. Only, I don’t think I am.

We move quickly to the room that looks like a study and stand before the two slightly crooked bookshelves. I reach out, and my fingers land on the spine of a book that’s different from the others. The faded floral pattern is feminine, and the book itself is smaller and thinner than the ones beside it. I pull it out, holding it with both hands. Shaking hands.

Oliver says nothing, just waits beside me, ready to let me take my time. I turn the cover over. It’s stiff, and the binding creaks with age. The pages inside are crisp, though a little yellow around the edges, like the newspaper article now folded neatly in my purse. I turn a few, careful not to tear them. Black ink fills almost every inch. The handwriting has faded some, but remarkably, even after eighty-plus years, the script inside is completely legible.

My eyes see words I can hardly process. They steal the breath away from me. I look at Oliver, unbelieving. “It’s hers.” The script is loopy, lovely, and wide. I read aloud, and he moves to stand behind me, looking over my shoulder. “This is the diary of Lola Elizabeth Harrison.” I turn to the first page. My mouth is dry. I wet my lips before reading on.

17th September 1927

I don’t know where or how to begin. I’ve abandoned my child. It seems trivial to write something so awful on a piece of blank paper. These words would be better placed in an obituary, though my intention in leaving was to live. Still, the words feel too new and horrible to be true. I caught sight of myself in the train window, and for a moment I thought it was a stranger staring back. Grief and doubt have aged me in the hours since leaving my Elizabeth, and I wonder how I’ll live with what I’ve done, and if I’ll ever feel young again.

I stop. I can’t believe it’s here. Sitting at the hotel, thinking of the floral pattern stitched across the spine of this little book, I
knew
. I knew what it must be. That it was hers. That she existed. Now I hold the proof in my hands. What I didn’t want to find was the truth my mother was so certain of, that she abandoned her daughter of her own free will.

Oliver wraps an arm around me. His mouth is close to my ear. “I’m sorry. I know you were hoping for something else.”

I close the book and hug it to my chest. “It’s stupid. I just thought, maybe . . .”

He presses his face against my hair. “I know.” He releases me.

The book feels much heavier than it should.

“Don’t you want to read it?”

I run my thumb across the cover. It might be made of thick cotton. I’m not sure. The needlework raises the flowers beneath my fingers. I look around the room for somewhere to sit and read.

Oliver lays his hand against mine and presses the book to my chest “Take it,” he whispers.

“What?” I shake my head, confused.

“Take it with you.”

“Oliver, I can’t just . . . steal it,” I whisper back.

“Why not?”

I open my mouth to make up an excuse but stutter on the words. “Because that’s—it’s not—it doesn’t belong to me.”

“If it doesn’t belong to you, than who the hell
does
it belong to?”

I look at the book in my hands. This is my chance to find out what happened to Lola. “I’ll just read it here.”

“And leave it to sit unread and unappreciated for the rest of time? No one here’s going to miss it, but it’s your family story, your legacy. It belongs with someone who cares about her. Take it.”

I’d never stolen so much as a dollar in my life before the achievement ribbon. Now I’m contemplating stealing a book from what is, essentially, a museum. I look around the room. It’s deserted, lonely. I can’t leave her, what’s left of her life, here in this place. I open my purse and drop the book inside. We leave quickly, telling Carlan we need to get back on the road.

As Oliver turns onto the highway ramp, I find myself laughing, louder and longer than I can ever remember doing before. I’m a rebel, an outlaw, and it feels good.

Green Kentucky hills roll endlessly in front of us. Oliver takes a bite out of an apple, and it crunches loudly against his teeth. After leaving the Craig house, we decide to grab some provisions and find a quiet place to read Lola’s diary.

The endlessness of the landscape is beautiful. Downers Grove is quaint by Chicago standards, with its little shops and manicured parks, but it’s always full of people. After college I thought about leaving the city and the suburbs. For a few weeks, the idea of backpacking through Tuscany or the south of France consumed me. I even bought a few travel guides. Then something—I can’t even remember what—got in the way. I don’t know where those books are now. Lost at the bottom of my closet, maybe.