Preston's Honor(26)

I walked slowly and carefully toward their house, unaccustomed to the short heels I’d borrowed from the sixteen-year-old next-door neighbor, holding the pie in both hands.

There were a few people mingling on the large front porch, sipping cold drinks and talking in somber tones. Through the open window to the left of the front door, I saw people inside what looked to be the kitchen.

My heart rate increased, that familiar feeling of not belonging causing my skin to prickle. The sweat still sliding down my back felt cold and clammy. I took a deep breath and gave a man standing near the porch railing a smile that felt timid. He nodded back to me and I walked slowly to the door, raising my hand and knocking.

My muscles tensed as I waited and when the door opened ten seconds later, I made an effort to relax so I didn’t look as stiff and uncomfortable as I felt. Camille Sawyer was standing on the other side, blotting her nose with a tissue. She stared at me, waiting.

“Ma’am,” I said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Her brows drew in slightly, and she brought the tissue away from her face. Her eyes were puffy from crying, and her nose was slightly red, but her lipstick was still perfectly applied, her hair beautifully sleek, her eyes vivid aqua in contrast to her pink-rimmed lids, and she looked somehow especially lovely in her sadness. I saw Preston and Cole in her blue, almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones.

My hands shook as I held the pie out to her, and she took it but then glanced down in confusion as if she hadn’t meant to do so. “Aren’t you that little thing the boys used to run around with outside?”

The heat in my face increased. I felt like I was standing in front of her as a ball of flame, a melting candle, and for a minute I could only nod. “I . . . yes, my mother used to work for Mr. Sawyer.”

She sniffed and turned her face away for a moment, looking back into the house before turning back to me. “Well, I’ll tell the boys you stopped by. Surely you understand why I don’t invite you in.” The look on her face held such disdain that I felt it like a sudden, sharp blow.

My heart dropped, and I felt sick. I’d known she didn’t like Preston and Cole playing with me when we were children. Even in my childish understanding of the world, I’d received the message that she didn’t believe it appropriate that her boys socialize with the farmworkers or their children. But I hadn’t thought she’d outright snub me if I came to her front door as a woman, to pay my respects to her dead husband.

I’d been wrong. Incredibly wrong.

I remembered Warren Sawyer as a man who spent as much time working the land as the men and women he employed. I remembered him patting me on the head and handing me a ripe strawberry, and I remembered falling half in love with him for the way he smiled at me. I remembered him as very large and not very talkative, but with an air of kindness about him. Very much the strong, silent type but not without the light of depth in his eyes. Like Preston.

I wondered now if he’d disapproved of my friendship with his sons, too, and something about the question—the mere possibility—hurt me, though it felt like an irrational pain. I hadn’t even really known him and now he was gone.

For a moment all I could do was focus on my borrowed shoes, wishing I could just disappear. But I gathered what pride I had left—precious little—and raised my chin, offering a small smile that felt wobbly, but I hoped wasn’t visually so. “Please accept my condolences. Goodbye.” I turned slowly and walked with as much grace as I could over the porch and down the front steps.

The man I’d said hi to standing at the railing shot me an embarrassed look, and it made me want to shrink to know he’d heard the exchange, but I lifted my chin higher and continued my slow walk away from the Sawyer home.

When I’d only made it a few steps away from the house, Mrs. Sawyer’s voice came to me through the open kitchen window, obviously speaking to someone else in the room. “Ick. Throw this in the garbage. It’s probably not fit to eat.”

A lump rose in my throat and I sped up my pace, unwilling to cry while on this property. I walked back to my car and climbed inside, shutting the door and pulling hot air into my lungs. I’d left the windows down so my car wasn’t an oven when I returned to it, but even so, the heat was stifling and I felt mildly woozy. I leaned my head back on the seat and fought to regain my strength, waited as the pain of what had happened at the Sawyers’ door lessened.

You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.

When I felt less shaken, I reached for my keys, movement in my peripheral vision causing me to glance out the window. Preston was walking very slowly toward my car. My heart jolted, the hand holding my keys freezing on the way to the ignition. He approached me slowly and as he did, I unconsciously opened the door of my car and stepped out, drawn to him without thought.

Our eyes held as I closed the door behind me, pressing my butt against it and waiting as he drew nearer.

“Lia.” He sounded shocked, his eyes moving over me quickly, coming to rest on my face. He roamed my features, too, blinking as he took another step closer. “My God, I thought it was you.”

“Preston,” I breathed, swallowing nervously. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry about your father.”

His eyes met mine, blank for a moment, as if I’d reminded him of something he’d momentarily forgotten. Then he nodded, his expression becoming solemn, that same serious expression he’d worn since he was just a kid.