The Homewreckers(43)

“That’s pretty heartless,” Hattie said flatly.

“It’s a pretty heartless business,” Mo agreed. “By the way, the reporter from the newspaper wants to talk to you.”

“I hope you told her no. I literally have already said everything I know about that wallet.” Hattie gestured at the scaffolding she and Cass had erected in the hallway leading to the bedroom. “We’ve got to get the new staircase roughed in today. And I thought you wanted to shoot me with Trae, discussing paint colors.”

“The camera crew is heading to town with Trae to shoot his paint-shopping expedition. He’ll bring back samples, you’ll paint swatches on the back porch, and we’ll film that. In the meantime, I promised the reporter you’d give her ten minutes of your valuable time.”

“When’s that supposed to happen?”

“No time like the present,” Mo said. He pointed toward the back of the house. “She’s waiting for you in the kitchen. Be nice, okay?”





21

Twenty Questions




She found the reporter kneeling down against the back kitchen wall, running her fingertips over the newly taped and mudded wallboard, almost as though she was trying to divine what was hidden beneath that surface.

“Hattie Kavanaugh, meet Molly Fowlkes,” Mo said, backing out of the room. “I’ll, uh, leave you two alone, but Hattie, we’re gonna need you in makeup in about fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be there,” Hattie said.

Molly tapped the wall. “Is this where you found the wallet?”

“Approximately,” Hattie said. “It was stuck down there between the studs.”

“Okay if I take a photo?” The reporter didn’t wait for permission. She pulled a bulky black camera from her shoulder bag and started clicking frames. “Could you stand over by the wall?”

Mindful of Mo’s admonition to play nice, Hattie shrugged, ran her fingers through her hair, and dutifully posed.

“Tell me about Lanier Ragan,” Molly said. “What was she like?”

Hattie stalled, walking over to the makeshift worktable, unrolling a set of plans that had been left out and bending over to examine them, while she mentally composed a response.

“You know how it is in high school—you always think your teachers are really old, even though now, I look back and realize they were mostly in their thirties and forties. But Mrs. Ragan was different. She was like us.”

“How so?”

“She dressed and acted young. Like, she always wore cute outfits, not some old-lady sweaters and skirts and orthopedic shoes, but the kinds of stuff we wished we were allowed to wear to school instead of those dopey plaid uniform skirts and knee socks and saddle shoes. She listened to the same kind of music we did—like, she knew every word to every pop song. She was just … fun.”

“Fun, how?”

Hattie didn’t hesitate. “I remember for our AP English class, she said if everyone in the class aced this test, she’d come to school dressed as Britney Spears and act out the whole ‘Baby One More Time’ video.”

Molly looked impressed. “Catholic schools must have changed a lot since my day.”

“It was awesome,” Hattie said. “She had her hair in pigtails, and the whole slutty uniform thing going on. She lip-synced it, and I swear, you’d have believed she actually was Britney.”

“She must have been really popular with the girls.”

Hattie let out a long, soft sigh. “Yeah. She was the kind of teacher who actually listened. Who was interested in what was going on with her students. You could tell her stuff, and you knew she wouldn’t judge. She was compassionate, you know?”

“Can you give me an example?” the reporter asked. She studied Hattie’s expression. “I won’t write about it—if it’s too personal. I’m just trying to get a feel for who she was, and what she meant to her students.”

Hattie felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. “I don’t know…”

“I swear.”

“Okay,” Hattie said, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. “My sophomore year, my parents broke up, and there was a scandal. My mother moved down to Florida, but I wanted to stay in Savannah. So I moved in with my friend Cass’s family. It was an incredibly painful time for me.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I had kind of a rough time of it. Some girls that I thought were my friends, not Cass, but some others—they just turned their backs on me. And Mrs. Ragan got what I was going through. I’d stop by her classroom after school, while she was grading papers, and we’d talk. A couple times, we walked over to the 7-Eleven—the one on Drayton Street—and we bought Cokes and sat in the square and talked.”

“And that helped?”

Hattie nodded. “She told me everybody goes through bad stuff. Every family has secrets—ugly secrets. And she told me it wasn’t my fault. Here’s the thing she said to me that I’ve never forgotten. ‘Don’t look over your shoulder. The past is past. Just try to get through it, and give yourself some grace.’”

Molly tapped her pen thoughtfully. “I wonder what kind of secrets Lanier had?”