Before We Were Yours(52)

Or create more.

Without rethinking it, I hurry across the house, grab my phone, and dial Trent Turner’s number, which I now know by heart.

The phone rings three times before I glance at the clock and realize it’s almost midnight. Not at all a proper hour to be calling a near stranger. My mother would be aghast.

If you want to win the man’s cooperation, this isn’t the way to do it, Avery has just gone through my head when a thick, drowsy “?’Ello, Nrent Nnurner” confirms that I have, indeed, rousted him from bed. That’s probably why he answered the phone without checking to see who it was.

“Tennessee Children’s Home Society,” I blurt out, because I calculate that I have about 2.5 seconds before he comes to his senses and hangs up.

“What?”

“The Tennessee Children’s Home Society. What does it have to do with your grandfather and my grandmother?”

“Miss Stafford?” Despite the formal form of address, his thick, sleep-laden tone makes the greeting sound intimate, like pillow talk. A heavy sigh follows, and I hear bedsprings creaking.

“Avery. It’s Avery. Please, you have to tell me. I found something. I need to know what it means.”

Another long exhale. He clears his throat, but the voice is still deep and drowsy. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

I glance sheepishly at the clock, as if that somehow excuses my bad behavior. “I apologize. I didn’t notice until after I’d dialed.”

“You could hang up.”

“I’m afraid if I did, you’d never answer again.”

A little chuckle-cough tells me I’m right. “True enough.”

“Please listen to me. Please. I’ve been digging around the cottage all evening, and I found something, and you’re the only one who can tell me what it means. I just…I need to know what’s going on and what I should do about it.” If there’s a scandal somewhere in our family’s past, it’s quite possible that it no longer matters, except perhaps to a few well-preserved members of the Old Guard Gossip Brigade, but there’s no way to judge that until I know what I’m dealing with.

“I really can’t tell you that.”

“I understand your promise to your grandfather, but…”

“No.” He suddenly sounds wide-awake—wide-awake and in control. “I mean, I can’t tell you. I’ve never looked in any of the envelopes. I helped Granddad get them to the people whose names were on them. That’s all.”

Is he telling the truth? It’s hard for me to imagine. I’m the type who carefully peels the tape off the wrapping paper and peeks at the Christmas presents the minute they show up under the tree. I don’t like surprises. “But what were they about? What did it have to do with the Tennessee Children’s Home Society? Children’s homes are for orphans. Could my grandmother have been looking for someone who was given up for adoption?”

As soon as I suggest it, I’m afraid I’ve said too much. “That’s just a theory on my part,” I add. “I don’t have any reason to think it’s true.” I’m better off not opening the door to a potential scandal. I don’t know that I can trust Trent Turner, though it takes a man of integrity to live with sealed envelopes for months on end. The elder Mr. Turner must have known that his grandson was made of solid stuff.

The phone goes silent and stays that way so long that I wonder if Trent has abandoned the call. I’m afraid to speak, afraid anything I say might tip the balance one way or the other.

I’m not terribly accustomed to begging, but finally I whisper, “Please. I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot this afternoon, but I don’t know where else to go from here.”

He takes in air. I can almost see his chest filling. “Come over.”

“What?”

“Come over to the house before I change my mind.”

Stunned silence is all I can manage in response. I’m not sure whether I’m excited or scared to death…or if I’m crazy for even thinking about visiting a stranger’s house in the middle of the night.

On the other hand, he is a reputable and well-known businessman on the island.

A businessman who now knows that I’ve unearthed at least some part of a secret.

His grandfather’s deathbed secret.

What if there’s a sinister intention behind this midnight invitation? No one will even know where I am. Who can I tell?

I can’t think of anybody I’d want to let in on this right now.

I’ll leave a note…here in the cottage….

No…wait. I’ll send myself an email. If I go missing, that’s the first place they’ll check.

The thought feels melodramatic and silly, and then again, it doesn’t. “I’ll grab my keys and—”

“You won’t need your car. I’m four cottages down.”

“You’re right in the neighborhood?” Parting the kitchen curtains, I try to see through the wall of yaupon and live oak. All this time, he was practically next door?

“It’s quicker by the beach. I’ll turn the back-porch light on.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I rattle around the cottage looking for a flashlight and batteries. Fortunately, whatever relatives have been using the place did leave the basics. My phone rings as I’m thumb-typing an email to myself, documenting my whereabouts and my time of departure. I jump at least three feet, then land hard in a pit of dread. Trent changed his mind already….