Run, Rose, Run(20)

Half an hour later, smelling like jasmine and orange blossoms, AnnieLee tiptoed downstairs in an oversized fluffy white bathrobe and found Ruthanna at the kitchen table with a steaming mug of tea.

“You look like you feel better,” Ruthanna said. “You also sort of look like a polar bear in that thing.”

AnnieLee smiled shyly and sat down across from her. “I’m clean, but my clothes are pretty dirty.”

Ruthanna just gazed at her for a moment, and AnnieLee wondered if she’d somehow said the wrong thing, even though it was the obvious truth.

Then Ruthanna got up and walked over to the counter, where she squeezed a thin stream of golden honey into her tea. “I think I might have some things that would fit you,” she said.

When she looked up again, her eyes were steady on AnnieLee’s. “Where are you from, AnnieLee? Where’s home?”

AnnieLee had been dreading this question, since it wasn’t one she could answer the way she wanted to. True honesty just wasn’t possible. She pulled the collar of her robe tighter around her neck. “It’s complicated,” she said.

“Life’s complicated,” Ruthanna said, coming back to the table. “And seeing as how I let you into my home, I don’t think it’s too much for you to answer a question. Do you?”

AnnieLee twisted a napkin in her lap.

“Well, then?” Ruthanna was persistent.

“I don’t really have family,” AnnieLee said.

“We all come from somewhere,” Ruthanna said gently.

Nervously, AnnieLee straightened the napkin back out. When she spoke, she kept her lips so close together that her words were barely audible. “My parents were survivalists in the backwoods of Tennessee.”

There. She’d done it.

God, forgive me, she thought. I never knew lying could be so easy.

“It doesn’t sound like you were too fond of them,” Ruthanna said. “Well, parents can be tough. My own mother was—if you’ll excuse the phrase—an incorrigible, dyed-in-the-wool, redheaded bitch on wheels.”

“My mom died when I was ten,” AnnieLee said. That much was true.

“I’m so sorry,” Ruthanna said. “What happened?”

But AnnieLee just looked down at her lap. She wasn’t ready to talk about her mother’s slow and grisly death from cancer—not tonight, and maybe not ever.

“All right,” Ruthanna said. “I won’t press you further. You go on to bed. I have to finish drinking this tea. It’s nettle. Maya, my assistant, says it’s good for me.”

“I really appreciate you letting me—” AnnieLee began.

Ruthanna held up a hand. “Say nothing more,” she said. “I’ve got more space than I know what to do with. It’s nice to have another body around.” She took a sip of her tea and made a sour face. “Needs more honey. I swear it tastes like boiled weeds. Anyway, when you go upstairs, open the last door on your left, and you’ll see a bedroom that’s all white.” She stopped abruptly, and she closed her beautiful green eyes. But after another second, she opened them. She gave herself a little shake, as if she were shrugging something off. “In the closet are all kinds of clothes that will fit you. You can take whatever you need.”

“Oh, Ms. Ryder, I can’t take your clothes on top of everything else,” AnnieLee said.

Ruthanna almost seemed to flinch, and her fingers tightened around her mug. “No one’s worn them in a long time,” she said quietly. “So you just go on ahead and take whatever you like.”





Chapter

19



Ruthanna woke to sunbeams filtering softly through sheer French linen curtains. Her window was open, and she could hear the low hum of bees in the apple blossoms outside. She lay in bed for another minute, thinking about the girl down the hall. Dark-haired AnnieLee Keyes was like a half-broke horse: bold and skittish at the same time.

Ruthanna wasn’t sorry for telling her to go home—or somewhere else, if home wouldn’t do. The music business was different than it used to be, and Ruthanna Ryder herself wouldn’t want to be finding her way through it these days.

She sat up slowly and stretched, working out the kinks in her neck as she walked into the bathroom. After a quick, cold shower—another one of Maya’s ideas for improving her health, which was perfectly good already, thank you very much—she put on a cream-colored linen jumpsuit that her former stylist had sent her for her birthday in May. Ruthanna had fudged her age for so many years she barely knew what number she’d turned, and she certainly didn’t care to think too hard on it.

She pulled her hair into a loose ponytail and then headed downstairs through the big, silent house. It hadn’t always been so quiet in these rooms, but a lot had changed over the years. Some things for the better, she thought, and quite a few for the worse.

“But time marches on,” Ruthanna said out loud, a truism for sure and the name of a Tracy Lawrence song, too. She hummed the melody as she fixed herself a pot of coffee, making a lot of noise as she did so to let that nervy girl upstairs know that she was awake and it was okay to come down.

Then Ruthanna got the wild idea to make pancakes. AnnieLee needed to put some meat on her bones, and Ruthanna figured she could live vicariously by watching AnnieLee put away a stack of flapjacks. Meanwhile, she could sip her coffee and wait for whatever nasty spirulina smoothie Maya would show up with and then badger her into drinking.