She jumped at the sound of the doorbell ringing, her body jolting like she’d been shocked. She crept out of her room and tiptoed down the hall, ignoring Barney’s wild barking. She peered around the corner to where she could see the door. She couldn’t see anyone looking through the glass panels on either side, so she tiptoed to the peephole, working to stay out of sight.
Just as she put her eye to the peephole, the doorbell rang again, as if the person on the other side knew the exact moment to depress it for maximum effect. The call from Dwight had gotten to her, made her paranoid. She needed to calm down. Just because Calvin knew that Polly had a daughter didn’t mean he knew Norah’s name. It was different from hers, after all. And Norah, for her own reasons, had stayed off the radar and wasn’t easy to find herself. Overreacting would only make things worse. Just because Calvin knew she had a daughter didn’t mean he was at her door.
And he wasn’t. It was a lovely thin blonde woman with one of those sassy short haircuts—a pixie, Polly believed it was called—and the kind of wide, certain smile featured prominently in toothpaste commercials. Polly deemed she was safe, unless Calvin had employed this person as a decoy. “You’re being ridiculous,” she breathed as she opened the front door.
“Yes?” she asked the woman, who immediately thrust out her hand. Beside her, Barney checked out the guest, sniffed the air, and walked away. So different from his response to that detective. Barney was a good judge of character.
“You must be Violet’s grandmother,” the woman said.
Polly nodded and shook the woman’s hand and gave her her most winning smile. It was a veritable smiling contest. But Polly couldn’t shake the feeling that neither smile was genuine.
“I’m Polly Cartwright,” she said, then instantly regretted using her last name. If Calvin came sniffing around—if he got this far—the name might tip someone off. She would not make that mistake again.
“I’m Bess Strickland,” the woman said.
Ah, Polly thought, you’re the one who kicked out my granddaughter in her time of need. You’re part of the reason I’m here. I should thank you.
“We’re neighbors of Norah and Violet.” The woman hitched her thumb to the left. “We live up the street.”
Polly nodded and said, “That’s nice,” because she didn’t know what to say.
The woman stooped down and lifted a large vase of flowers that Polly hadn’t noticed till then. She’d been too busy scanning the street for a glimpse of Calvin’s truck. Bess thrust the vase into the space between the two of them. “I brought these for you.”
“Did you carry these all the way down here?” Polly asked, the shock obvious on her face. “That vase is about as big as you are.”
The woman grimaced. “Stupid, I know. It was an impulse. A foolish one, I guess.”
“Well, they’re lovely,” Polly said, and reached to take the vase out of the woman’s—she’d already forgotten what she had said her name was—hands. She held the vase awkwardly, flower petals tickling her chin and the earthy scent of gardenias filling her nose. “Thank you so much,” she said, a cue for the woman to leave. But she stayed right where she was.
“I wanted to check on Violet,” the woman said, an earnest look on her face. Her name came to mind just then: Bess, an old-fashioned-sounding name, but it suited her. “How’s she doing?”
An honest reply formed in Polly’s mind: Your guess is as good as mine. She stays in her room most of the time and doesn’t talk much. Last night she snuck out with a boy in the middle of the night, and I have no idea if that kind of behavior is normal for her. I mean, I wasn’t comfortable with it, but what can I say about it? I barely know the child.
Instead she just said, “She seems fine. Considering.”
Bess nodded vigorously, agreeing, it seemed, with the word considering. “She’s been through so much.” She made a wretched face. “I felt so bad about what happened at my house.” She looked to Polly, as if expecting her to comment on whatever awfulness had transpired in her home. Polly stared back at her blankly.
“She didn’t tell you about it?” Bess prompted. Polly shook her head and shifted the heavy vase in her arms. Bess noticed and gestured toward the doorway. “Why don’t you go put that down? It’s heavy, I should know.”
Polly nodded and turned to carry the vase deeper into the house, thinking Bess would wait for her on the porch. Instead, behind her, she heard her footsteps following. With Bess behind her, she was safe to roll her eyes. Now she had company, and who knew when the woman would leave? She carried the vase on into the kitchen and set it down in the middle of the table. She stepped back to admire it. She always did like fresh flowers on a table.
“Must’ve cost you a pretty penny,” she said, gesturing at the arrangement.
Bess waved her arm dismissively. “Oh, it didn’t cost a thing. I collect vases from Goodwill, and the flowers are from my garden.”
“You grew these?” Polly took in the variety of flowers—zinnias and gardenias and asters and geraniums and, right in the center, a large sunflower. She couldn’t imagine having the kind of garden where all of these grew, this lovely, even into October. Her yard must be gorgeous. She glanced over at her guest. Lovely like she was. Polly wondered if Bess knew she was lovely, or had forgotten, as some women do.
“It’s the end of the season,” Bess said. “I was lucky to still have these to offer. When I can, I like to take them to people. Try to brighten their day.” She shrugged it off as if it were nothing.
Polly looked from the flowers to the woman. “It worked,” she said.
A smile bloomed on Bess’s face, then quickly died again. “I mainly wanted to apologize. For not keeping Violet like Norah intended. If I had, you wouldn’t have had to come here. You’d be off living your life, oblivious.”
Polly gave her a polite smile in response, not saying anything about the life she had left behind. How, while Allen’s phone call had entangled her in her daughter’s mess, it had also freed her, in a way. If not for this place to come to, she would still be back in Hickory, debating leaving thieving Calvin and wondering how to pull it off. But she could say none of this to a stranger. For a moment Polly wished she had a friend to confide in, though her trust of other women had dried up years ago when her best friend had run off with a man she’d believed would be her third husband. She’d not really let anyone in after that, deciding she was better off telling her troubles to a dog.
“It was no trouble,” she said. “I was happy to help.” This was as close to the truth as she could get.
Bess shook her head. “Well, I still feel like I failed Violet, and Norah.”
“You two are friends?” Polly asked. In school Norah had been popular, well liked, a circle of girls always around her, eager to do her bidding. The way Polly saw it, it wouldn’t have been a far jump for her to successfully run a ring of escorts.
“Well, we’re neighbors,” Bess said with a light tone, but her face looked sad. Polly could tell there was more to the story that Bess didn’t want to get into. And she respected that. “She knew she could call on me when she was in a bind,” Bess added. “And I would call her if I needed something.”