Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(61)

“They want us,” Charles said. “They want both of us.” The word “both” was spoken with great emphasis.

She buttoned the uniform and stuck her head out around the screen. “Who wants you? For what?” she asked as she stepped up behind Guy, who was now holding the letter at arm’s length, looking at it like he couldn’t quite believe what was written there. Charles’s eyes rose as she spoke, but then passed over her. She glanced over her shoulder to realize he was focused on the shawl she’d been wearing. There was a sly smile on his lips. Evidently he knew who owned it. Jilo asked herself if she cared to learn that woman’s identity. No, she decided, but she did want to know what was in the letter Guy still held. She reached for it, but he snatched it back.

He held it to his chest, as jealously and as guiltily as if it were a love letter. She slid her hands down to her hips and tilted her head. “Who,” she said, angry and tired of his games, “wants you?”

He slipped the letter back into its envelope and handed it to Charles. “A gallery,” Guy said, squatting down and opening his arms like he expected her to come running into them. She held her place. “A real one where they appreciate real art. Not like the little crap holes in this town.”

“So,” she said, determined to draw the whole story out of him with as few equivocations as possible, “I take it this gallery is not in Atlanta.”

“No,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other. “It isn’t. It’s in New York.”

“Ah,” she said, nodding. “Well, of course you’ll be going.”

A look of relief flooded his face. His shoulders relaxed, letting his arms fall to his sides. “This is big, Jilo. I’ve been working for this all my life.”

“I understand,” she said. “How long will you be up north?”

He focused on the floor by her feet. “If things go well, I won’t be coming back.”

“Then I’ll go with you,” she said, though the look on his face told her all she needed to know.

His head jerked as he cast a glance at the silent Charles. An embarrassed smile curved his lips when he looked back at her. “I can’t ask that of you, sweetheart. It’s a different world up there. You’re a small-town girl at heart, and New York, well, I’m afraid you won’t take to the big city. Besides, you have a job. Your whole life is here.”

Jilo flung her arms into the air and spun around. “Yes. How could I possibly give this up?” She noticed Charles slinking backward toward the door. “That’s right. You go on. You get the hell out of here.” He slipped through the door, and she rushed over and flung her full weight at it to make sure it slammed behind him.

She turned on Guy. “When?” she demanded. “When are you leaving me?”

He lowered his face, trying not to look at her. “Couple of days, I reckon.”

She nodded, more to herself than to him. “You reckon.” She knelt by the side of the bed and tugged out her suitcase, the one she’d brought from Savannah to Atlanta, the one she’d carried from the Joneses’ boarding house here. She set it on the bed and undid its straps, pausing for only a moment after she opened it. “If I told you I was pregnant, would you stay?” She looked toward him, heavy tears brimming her eyes. “Would you take me with you?”

He turned his back toward her. “You wouldn’t lie to me just to hold on to me. You wouldn’t do that.”

She sighed and realized she was trembling. Forcing herself to regain composure, she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “No, I guess I wouldn’t.” She opened the battered chifferobe that had come with the apartment and scooped out the dresses she rarely wore now that she spent most days in her nurse’s uniform. She didn’t bother to fold them neatly; she just dropped them into the case. Next went the jewelry box that held the few pieces that hadn’t disappeared over the past months. She’d pretended not to notice as one after the other went missing. It didn’t really matter whether he’d given her purloined baubles to his other women or hocked them for money. Either way they were lost to her. She tossed the box on top of the dresses and closed and secured the suitcase’s lid.

She reached under the table to pull out the shoes she’d kicked off beneath it, then sat on the edge of the bed to put them back on. She stood and tugged the case from the bed. It was heavy, but not nearly as heavy as her heart. “The rent is covered till the end of the week. You need to clear out by Friday, unless you’re prepared to pay for another.” She lifted the case and walked to the door, praying with each step he’d call out to stop her. But he didn’t. She reached out and turned the brass doorknob. She opened the door, but she paused for a moment at the threshold, staring at his broad shoulders.

He turned. “You take care of yourself,” he said.

She nodded and stepped into the hall. The damnedest thing, she realized, was that even after this, after everything he’d done, she’d go to her grave loving the man. She pulled the door closed behind her. “I’ll do that,” she said quietly. Her free hand slipped to her stomach. “I’ll take care of both of us.”





EIGHT


Jilo stood at the bus stop, forcing herself not to sob and make a scene like one of the fool women who used to wash up at her nana’s door—screaming, crying, begging Nana to help bring back the wrong man or make the right one love them. Nana would always try to talk the women out of going after a man whose heart lay elsewhere. The smart ones would return home with a bit of wisdom and with fuller pockets than the fools.