Not One of Us(20)

“I’ll be careful.” I threw up a hand, eager to return home before Mimi and Zach stirred and not particularly wanting to chitchat with this armed stranger. “Happy hunting.”

He tugged the bill of his camo cap, and in two seconds, he’d completely disappeared into the woods, silent and inconspicuous, with the skill of a practiced hunter. I blinked, slightly disconcerted at the speed with which he’d blended into the green foliage. Shaking off my bemusement, I headed down the path, a great deal noisier than the hunter, just in case his friends were around. At the bend in the trail, I glanced over my shoulder at the smoking shed, its outline visible in the emerging morning light.

Even with all the whispered promises and long conversations with Deacon held inside the old building, there had also been things left unsaid. Words that would never be spoken aloud.

Dead secrets that haunted.





Chapter 6


JORI


“He was adopted, you know.”

Mimi had slipped that little bombshell in today, totally out of the blue. I was dropping her off at the home of Rose Sankey, one of her oldest and dearest friends. Rose was the same age as Mimi. She’d never fully recovered from hip surgery last year, but her mind was sharp as a tack. Mimi helped Rose with the housekeeping while they gossiped and then settled in for a mammoth game of gin. Rose kept a steady eye on Mimi, providing my grandmother a safe outing for the day. The arrangement worked out perfectly for both of them.

“Hmm . . . what was that?” I asked, my mind focused on safely pulling through the four-way stop downtown.

“Jackson. He was adopted.”

I gaped at her. “I can’t believe this is the first time I’ve heard of it.”

“Well, you just asked me about him.”

“You mean a couple of days ago?” My brow furrowed as I turned onto Ocala Drive.

“No,” she said, her voice rising. “Just now.”

I’d done no such thing. Instead, I’d been mentally listing all my to-do tasks for the week. While Zach was at his adult day program, I could focus better on my business. But correcting Mimi would only make her more edgy.

“Why haven’t you told me about Jackson before now?” I asked. “What’s the big deal?”

“It was a huge deal for Tressie. She and Ardy tried for years to have a baby, and it was clearly not working.”

“I meant, why the secrecy?”

Mimi rubbed a hand over her brow. The skin of her hands was so transparent and paper thin now. More than any other aspect of her appearance, they showed her age, betraying a fragile vulnerability. “Well, you wanted to know about him,” she said querulously. “What he was like.”

I waited, silently willing her to continue in her own bumbling, confused way.

“He was a bad boy,” she said at last, her voice so soft I had to lean in to catch the words. “Bad blood, I always said.”

It was hardly fair to blame Jackson’s behavior on his biology, but arguing the point with her served no purpose. “How was he bad?” I prodded when it appeared she had nothing further to say.

“He was a liar. And whenever he got caught in a lie, he knew just how to manipulate Tressie. Ardy, I think, began to see through Jackson by the time he was a teenager.”

“What did he lie about?”

“Drugs, stealing, a bad temper.” Mimi clamped her mouth shut. “Enough about him.”

She maintained a stony silence until I pulled into Rose’s driveway. With one hand on the car door latch, she turned to me, eyes serious and clear. “Don’t go digging up the past, Jori. Nothing good will come of it—mark my words.”

“Why? That was all long ago. It can’t hurt anyone now.”

To my surprise, her eyes filmed with tears.

“It’s okay,” I assured her, patting her arm. “I won’t ask you any more questions about Jackson.”

Mimi let out a sigh and then nodded before leaving the car. I watched as she walked up the sidewalk and knocked on the door. Rose opened it and waved at me, a signal that I could go on my way.

This wouldn’t be the first time I’d lied to my grandmother. But what was the point in needlessly upsetting her?

Less than ten minutes later, without any conscious decision on my part, I found myself sitting in Aunt Tressie’s room at Magnolia Oaks Nursing & Assisted Living Home, a private one, thanks to Uncle Buddy’s generosity. The home was magnificent and grand. Although small, Tressie’s room had polished mahogany floors, crown molding at the ceiling, and a brick fireplace that gave off a cozy vibe, which was further enhanced by my aunt’s flowers, afghans, stacks of books, and a few framed photos scattered on her tasteful furniture. She even had her own private bathroom and kitchen galley.

Speaking with my aunt Tressie was hit or miss. Some days, she was lucid and eager to talk about old times, and other days, she was wrapped in a mental fog that was nearly impregnable. Today fell in between on the spectrum. She sat in a recliner, shuffling through a parcel of photos and yellowed papers. This seemed to be her favorite activity. She greeted me with a smile of recognition, and then a frail hand fluttered to her hair. “Oh, dear. Is it my day to get my hair done? I’m not ready.”

Her voice was golden amber, shaped into cubes of frozen honey. The color was in the same happy orange family as the rest of my blood relations, but mellower in tone.