If ever there was a kid who deserved a break, it was Dylan. She hoped with all her heart he’d find what he needed to get him through till he could graduate from high school and head off to college.
Liddy gathered up her things, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and, for the second time that night, locked the door. Her walk home was lit by the streetlights and the occasional passing car. She climbed her front steps, her door key in her hand, still wondering if she’d done the right thing.
Chapter Thirteen
Jessica Bryant was buried in an old graveyard that sat on a slight rise near a small church that hadn’t been used for Sunday services in years. The congregation had grown to a size the church could no longer accommodate, so a larger plot of land had been purchased closer to the center of town, and a bigger church built, the old one now used only for small weddings and funerals. Because plots in the cemetery had been bought years ago by several of the church’s earliest families—such as the Bryants—occasionally the gates were opened, and a new grave was dug to hold the remains of a child or grandchild or great-grandchild of someone who’d already been laid to rest there. So it was that when Liddy and Jim Bryant had to bury their daughter, they’d brought her to this small peaceful place to spend eternity between Jim’s parents and her baby brother.
Liddy tried not to dwell on whether or not Jessie was actually there. She knew her body lay in a white casket with a pale-pink satin lining—something Liddy would never have chosen for Jessie, who’d have hated it. But Liddy had been incapable of making such decisions so soon after her daughter’s death, so Jim’s sister, Bunny, had stepped in and made the selection for her. Liddy preferred to think Jessie’s spirit was around her, not trapped under the ground in pink satin, but Liddy often visited her daughter’s grave and made sure the flowers she’d planted there were not in need of water or hadn’t been mowed down by an inattentive groundskeeper.
Early on the Sunday morning after her confrontation with Dylan, Liddy left her house and walked three-quarters of a mile to the cemetery. It had rained overnight, and the air was still heavy, and a lingering mist hung over the town. She unlatched the gate, which had yet to be opened at this early hour, and walked to the third row from the back on the right side, where Bryants had been buried for over a century. She opened the tote bag she carried and unfolded the quilt that had lain on Jessie’s bed and placed it on the wet grass. Liddy sat on the quilt, sipped coffee from her insulated mug, and rested her right arm on her upraised right knee. Leaning low, she spoke to her daughter, describing the events of the past twenty-four hours.
“I guess I’m wondering if I did the right thing,” she said.
“It’s not like you to have second thoughts,” a voice from behind said.
Startled, Liddy jumped up, dropped her coffee, and yelled, “Jesus, Mary, and Edna, Jim! Did you have to sneak up on me? You can’t announce yourself?”
“Sorry, Liddy. I didn’t want to interrupt you.” Jim walked toward her, his arms open as if to embrace her. In one hand he held a bouquet of Jessie’s favorite orange roses.
“What are you doing here?” She took a step back away from him, her heart racing and her hands shaking.
“Same thing you’re doing. Visiting our daughter’s grave.” He placed the roses on the ground directly in front of and as close as possible to the headstone. “You come here often?”
“Is that supposed to be funny?” Her heart was still racing, though at a slower speed.
“No. But I stop here every time I’m in Wyndham Beach, and I’ve never seen you here. So I was just wondering . . .”
“Yes, I visit often.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you. And I apologize for eavesdropping. I didn’t hear you speaking until I was right here. Were you really expecting an answer from Jess?”
“I talk to her all the time, just like I did when she was alive,” Liddy confessed.
“So do I,” he admitted.
“You do?” For some reason, this surprised her.
“I do. So what did she tell you? Does she think you did the right thing?” he asked.
“Are you mocking me?”
“No. I’m just curious. You always did get yourself into the damnedest situations. This one must have been a real doozy.”
“Ah, you do realize you sound just like your mother, right?”
Jim laughed. “Yeah, every once in a while, one of her expressions slip out. What’s the dictionary definition of doozy, anyway?”
“I always thought it meant something singular. Not like anything else.” Her wits were returning. “So what brings you into Wyndham Beach this morning?”
“Actually, I was coming in to see you, but I stopped here first.”
“What did you want to see me about? I gave Gretchen the papers you signed, so—”
“Not about that. I don’t care about that. We both agreed Grace should have that house if she wants it.”
“Then what?” Did they have other business Liddy’d forgotten about?
“I just wanted to see you. I thought maybe we could go out to breakfast. Or lunch? Or dinner?”
“I have to open the shop at nine, and I close at six on Sunday,” she explained.
“How about dinner?”
She thought for a moment. Did she really want to sit down with Jim and spend an hour or more with him? What did they have to talk about besides their daughter?
“Just dinner, Liddy.”
It sounded almost as if he were pleading. “All right.”
“I’ll pick you up at the shop at six, then. Is that all right?”
“Sure.” Her time here having been prematurely brought to an end, Liddy picked up the quilt and folded it, then tucked it back into the tote. “I’ll leave so you can have your time alone.”
“I appreciate that. I’ll see you at six.”
Liddy made her way over the uneven ground to the road, then onto the sidewalk. She’d planned on stopping at home to change before she went into the shop, but her encounter with Jim had left her unsettled, and the last place she wanted to be right then was in the house she’d shared with him for so many years. She made a quick detour into Ground Me for a large coffee to replace the brought-from-home brew she’d spilled when Jim had scared the pants off her and, once there, picked up one of their special only-on-Sunday cinnamon buns. She knew her hands would be sticky from the buttery, spicy syrup, but it would be worth it. She dashed across the street, dodging the cars headed for the tall-spired white church on the corner, where Emma’s father had ministered to his flock when they were kids. Now Emma’s brother’s name was on the sign out front. Liddy hadn’t been in that church since the funeral of a high school classmate the previous year, and since word on the street was that the son lacked the father’s finesse with a sermon, she didn’t figure she’d be going there anytime soon.
She unlocked the door, turned on first the lights, then the iPad to check Rosalita’s progress—at present she was cruising toward Rehoboth Beach, Delaware—wiped down the countertop, and tried not to think about Dylan. What if Brett and the baseball coach were unable to convince DCF to permit the boy to stay with the Rileys until he turned eighteen? Surely, as Brett suggested, they’d agree the amount of paperwork and investigation wasn’t worth the time it would take, because Dylan might turn eighteen before they even assigned a caseworker. Brett seemed to think it was a lock. Had he merely been trying to convince Dylan so he’d leave the shop?