The Final Victim(85)

Reverend Snowdon visited the hospital in Savannah this week to pray with her and Royce, thanking God for sparing his life. When he left, she promised she'd see him at Sunday services.

"Stay for our coffee hour after," he invited. "You'll see lots of familiar faces, and they'll certainly want to see you. Everyone has been praying for y'all."

She promised to try, but she knows that she won't linger.

It would be pure torture to face all those people wanting to know how Royce is, and wondering how Gib could have done such a thing, and telling her that her poor dead Grandaddy would have been simply devastated by this turn of events and the shame brought to the family name.

No, she doesn't need that at all.

And anyway, she has other things to do on the south end before hurrying back up here to Royce. She wants to finally stop at the supermarket to get the ingredients for that seafood dish she's making. The prospect of all that work and the busy day ahead is daunting now, but of course she'll be fine once she's on a roll.

Oh, and she needs to take that radio to Mr. Goldberg to be fixed. She'd have gone yesterday, but she called ahead in the morning and learned that his little shop was closed for the Jewish Sabbath.

Which worked out better in the end, because she felt just as tired and lazy yesterday. Plus the rain persisted well into the afternoon, and it was a good day to stay in and cuddle with Royce on his first day home.

He's still grumbling about the hospital bed, which was delivered late Friday night and set up in the parlor.

But he refused to agree to let Charlotte sleep down there with him, on the couch. She hated to leave him alone, feeling the almost compulsive need to keep watch over him, lest something terrible happen again.

This anxiety is probably perfectly normal. All the bereavement counseling she endured told her that. But shouldn't it be lessening with time and distance from the trauma, rather than growing in intensity?

She can't quite convince herself that Royce isn't in danger, even now that he's home and Gib is in custody.

But she didn't tell her husband of her uneasiness-just that she knew he might not be able to get around unassisted if he needed something in the middle of the night.

"I won't need anything, believe me," he said, yawning profusely before turning in. "But if I do, I'll holler."

As she and Aimee made their way to the kitchen with the dishes and cups from the tea-sweet for her, hot for Royce and Aimee-and honey toast they shared earlier, Charlotte commented in a low voice, 'The thing is, I'm so tired I'm afraid I wouldn't hear him if he did holler."

"Don't worry," Aimee said. "I'm not that tired. I'll definitely hear. Anyway, trust me-with those painkillers he's on, he's not going to budge. I just gave him a slightly bigger dose so he'll be out like a light all night."

"Is that a good idea?" Charlotte asked, concerned.

Aimee laughed. "Oh, don't worry. I didn't give him that much, although it was tempting, what with the way he was going on and on about you and me trying to baby him too much, and then he turns right around and calls me 'Baby Girl.' But that's Daddy. He's always liked to be the manly man. He thinks medicine is for wimps, you know?"

"Do I ever." Charlotte laughed, then fought another enormous yawn, overcome by the need for sleep. "I'm so wiped out I feel like I've been drugged myself. But I'll try and check on him a few times in the night."

"I'm sure he'll sleep through, with no pain. That's why I upped the dose a little. He probably wouldn't stir if a train went through there."

As far as Charlotte knows, he didn't stir-not Friday night, or last night, either. After the first good night's sleep, he wanted to try the stairs last night, but she and Aimee have convinced him to give it a few more days.

Whenever he's alone with Charlotte, he likes to take her in his arms to tell her-and show her-exactly why he's so anxious to get back up to their bedroom with her soon.

She feels the same way, and not just for romantic reasons.

Even with her night-light, she isn't comfortable being alone in that room all night.

Then again, it's not as though she's been lying awake worrying. Her own exhaustion is catching up with hen these last two nights, she's slept better than she has in weeks.

Which would be great if she didn't feel like she could have gone on sleeping for hours after the alarm went off.

"Good morning, Mrs. Maitland," Nydia says from the sink as Charlotte steps into the kitchen, now fragrant with fresh coffee and bacon grease.

"Good morning, Nydia." She pats a yawn from her lips. "You haven't seen my cousin Phyllida since yesterday, have you?"

The woman turns back to her sudsy water, but not before Charlotte glimpses a decidedly disagreeable expression on her face. "No."

Just no?

Irritated by the curt reply, Charlotte presses, "She hasn't been down for breakfast at all? Not yesterday, not today?" '’When does she ever come down for breakfast? She's lucky if she's up in time for lunch."

All right. It's no surprise that Nydia is less than fond of the resident prima donna. Still, she might be a little more pleasant about it.

Charlotte takes a travel mug from the cabinet, deciding a dose of caffeine is in order if she's going to come fully awake for the drive down south.