Читать книгу The Memory House - Linda Goodnight - Страница 10

4

Honey Ridge, Tennessee

Present Day

Eli climbed inside Bob Oliver’s blue Accord, a newer model that probably never broke down. Not like the $500 clunker he drove.

His lucky day, the man had said. Given the circumstances and his destination, Eli wasn’t taking any bets. But running into a friendly man was an unexpected stroke of luck. The phone request had been an act of desperation. Even if he’d found a mechanic to come out, he couldn’t have paid him, at least not the full amount. His only hope had been to exchange work for the bill.

“My car is back down the road about a half mile.” He pointed south where the clunker had died on him last night around midnight. Sleeping in the car hadn’t bothered him. He liked being in the open where he could see the stars and feel the fresh air.

“You from around here?” Bob angled his face toward the passenger seat. Morning sun reflected off his black-framed glasses.

“No.”

“Me, either. The wife and I are looking to move this direction, but we hail from Memphis.”

Eli’s stomach dropped into his still-stiff boots. He’d spent seven miserable years in Memphis. Even after six months of freedom, the memory was too sharp for comfort.

Struggling for polite conversation to turn the topic from his least favorite place, Eli blurted the first thing that came to him. “Seems like a nice inn.”

“Peach Orchard? The best. The wife and I drive down here to Julia’s whenever we get a chance. Unless you’re a Civil War buff, nothing much to do but sit around on the porch or walk in the gardens and orchard, maybe fish a little, but that’s why we come. Peace and quiet. Beautiful scenery. And great coffee.” He laughed and drained the remainder of his cup.

Eli continued to relish the best coffee he’d tasted in more than seven years. His mother had made coffee like this, in one of those fancy presses. He wondered if she ever thought about him. He tried not to think about her or of his father or the life he could have had if he’d been a better son. Remembering hurt too much, carried too much shame and remorse.

He sipped at the cup, glad for something in his empty stomach and grateful to the woman at the inn.

Julia. Pretty name for a pretty woman with her honey-blond hair smoothed back into a tail at the nape of her neck and sad blue eyes. He wondered why she’d been crying. But he shouldn’t be thinking about her. Shouldn’t be wondering what it would be like to sit down in that sparkling clean kitchen and enjoy breakfast with a woman like her. He didn’t let himself think about women of any kind these days, certainly not a decent one.

“Sweet lady,” Bob was saying as they turned south and approached Eli’s stalled vehicle. “At the end of every visit, she gives us a jar of peach preserves she makes from the orchard. Mighty tasty.”

Eli salivated at the thought of toast and jelly, a reminder that he’d not eaten since yesterday morning long before he’d finished the drywall job, collected his meager pay and left Nashville. To fill his empty belly, he took another mouthful of Julia’s coffee. Bob was right. Great stuff. Smooth and bold, the way Eli used to be.

He stared out the passenger-side window at the rolling landscape, green and flowery with spring. In the near distance he spotted buildings, a surprise. He hadn’t known he was that close to town but now that he thought about it, why would an inn be stuck out in the middle of nowhere?

“Is that your car right up there?” Bob nudged his chin toward a mistreated old Dodge parked at an angle on the side of the road.

He could imagine how a successful man like Bob Oliver must view a rattletrap with rusted fenders and a missing bumper. To the man’s credit, he didn’t react. A kind man. And good. The type of man Eli hadn’t encountered in a long time.

They exited the car and walked to the Accord’s trunk, where Bob removed a set of jumper cables. “Might as well grab the toolbox, too, in case we need it.”

Eli reached for the red metal container and started toward the front of his Dodge.

“How was she acting when she quit?”

“Just quit. The engine’s been sputtering for a hundred miles. I thought the fuel filter might be plugged up.”

“You checked that, I guess.”

“First thing this morning. Blew it out as good as I could. Still nothing.”

“Did she overheat?”

“No, sir. Just quit. The battery is old. It’s probably bad.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Eli stashed his remaining coffee on the floorboard of the Dodge. Then he lifted the hood and braced it open with a stick, amused and interested that a physics teacher had offered to do mechanic work. “Where did you learn about cars?”

“Hobby. When I was a kid, we didn’t have diddly. The only way I could own a vehicle was to rebuild one I’d bought myself. So I did.”

Eli huffed softly. “Sounds familiar.” Though he’d once had the finest vehicles, a beautiful home, a good family. And he’d thrown them all away on stupid choices.

He reached into the toolbox for an end wrench and tapped at the battery terminals. “Corroded,” he said with disgust. Like his life. He stuck the wrench in his shirt pocket while he wrestled the cable heads loose.

Bob leaned in for a look. “I think you’ve found your problem. They need a good cleaning, but a wipe down and a jump should get you back on the road.”

Eli scrubbed away at the terminals, using a T-shirt from his duffel bag. “Best I can do out here.”

Bob hooked up the jumper cables while Eli slipped into the driver’s seat and turned the key. After a few feeble grinds, the engine caught and started. Black smoke curled out the tailpipe as Bob slammed the hood and came around to the driver-side window.

“You have that checked first chance you get.”

“Sure.” When money grows on trees. “What do I owe you?”

“Not a thin dime. Pay it forward. That’s all I ask.”

Eli gave a solemn nod. “Thank you, sir.”

“If you get back this direction, stop in and say hello. If you see this Accord in the lot, we’re here.”

“Will do.” Not likely.

Then, with the morning breeze blowing in his face, Eli aimed the Dodge toward town, Opal Kimble and a piece of the past he’d never intended to resurrect.

The town of Honey Ridge was waking up as the old Dodge wheezed and rattled down the double row of buildings that composed the main street and led to a central square. The concrete was darkened from last night’s rain.

A woman washing the display window of Hallie’s Gifts and Cards paused, paper towel in hand to watch him pass. Her stare gave Eli a crawly feeling. He didn’t want to attract attention, here or anywhere.

A man outside the post office hoisted the flag though not a breath of air stirred. Many of the buildings were from another time but neat and well kept, one of them marked with the date 1884 and painted in colorful murals of the past.

As he passed a doughnut shop, the scent floated through his open window. His belly growled.

Eli fished in his jacket pocket for the scrap of paper and the directions Opal had given. Two blocks east of the stoplight he turned down Rosemary Lane, crawling along until he spotted a blue-frame house with peeling paint, an overgrown lawn and two green metal chairs on the front porch. Opal’s house.

The Dodge rattled to a stop at the end of a cracked driveway where a child’s plastic motorcycle lay on its side next to the garage. Eli’s empty belly cramped. His palms grew wet against the steering wheel.

What was he doing here? Every cell in his body urged him to turn tail and run, but for once in his life he didn’t. Couldn’t. He’d done very few responsible things in his thirty-six years, but this was different. He still couldn’t believe the horrible news. Sweet, giggly Mindy who’d fancied herself in love with him was dead—and she’d left behind a child.

With nerves gnawing a hole in his gut, he got out of the car, crossed the yard and stepped quietly onto the porch. It was early. If the car hadn’t broken down he’d have arrived last night. He didn’t see a light. Was Opal still asleep? Maybe he should come back later.

Coward, a voice inside his head whispered.

He released a gust of breath, wiped his sweaty hands down his jeans and reached for the knocker. His shaky hand wouldn’t quite take hold of the tarnished brass. He hovered there, as if the ordinary knocker had the power to change his life. Maybe he should forget this and head back to Nashville, keep trying to find permanent work. The boy never needed to know him. The boy. His son.

He pivoted to leave but stopped in a half-turn, wrestling with his conscience.

Before he could conquer the demons fighting inside his head, the scarred wooden door scraped open, catching on the threshold as if the wood had swollen with recent rain. An old woman with curly white hair and a wrinkled, pinched face leaned on a cane as she peered out at him.

Eli swallowed. “Opal Kimble?”

“Are you Eli?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She pushed the storm door open. “About time.”

He entered the house where the scent of food battled with the musty smell of age. Everything about the room was old. Old furniture. A big, boxy television on a roller cart cluttered with papers. Faded photos on the wall of people from another era. He thought of the inn he’d recently left and couldn’t help comparing the two houses. Both were old, filled with history, and yet Julia’s home was bright and inviting.

“Sit.”

Accustomed to taking orders, he complied.

“You want coffee?”

“Don’t trouble yourself.”

The old woman ignored his statement and left the room, returning with two mugs and a plate of raisin bread. “I figure you haven’t had breakfast this early.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Help yourself.”

“Thank you.” He required significant restraint to keep from wolfing down the bread like a wild animal. Careful to sip the scalding coffee between bites, he managed to eat without humiliating himself. The coffee was bitter compared to Julia’s. He didn’t care. He’d learned the hard way not to complain.

“Go on and eat all that bread,” the old woman said. “The boy doesn’t like raisins, and I’ve had my fill.”

The boy. The reason he’d come. She’d want money—he was certain of that after seeing her living conditions.

He could feel her watching him so he ate one more slice and stopped, though he could have eaten the entire loaf and still had room for breakfast.

When he’d finished, he sat back in the faded chair and waited, feeling a little better now that he’d had nourishment. She’d summoned him, demanded he come. Let her carry the conversation.

Opal, now seated across from him in a green lift-recliner, leaned forward, her fingers curled around the cane like bird claws. “You knew about the boy?”

“Mindy wrote to me.”

“You didn’t write back.”

“I thought it was for the best.” He lifted his palms in a helpless gesture. “Under the circumstances.”

“She said he’s your son.”

“He could be.” The news of Mindy’s pregnancy, received in a letter not long after his incarceration, had hit him like a ton of bricks. He’d felt like the lowlife he’d become. He and Mindy had only been together one long, hot summer before the trial that changed everything, and he’d always been cautious about relationships. But nothing was foolproof.

“Mindy wouldn’t lie. She was dying.”

Eli closed his eyes for a second. How could lively Mindy be dead? “I didn’t know until yesterday. She was too young.”

“Cancer knows no age, young man.” Opal raised her coffee and sipped, watching him with hawk eyes. After a few uncomfortable seconds, she went on. “When she knew the end was coming, she brought him to me, her only living relative. I love the child as I loved his mama. I want what’s best for him.”

Eli breathed a sigh of relief. She loved the boy. She’d take good care of him. “I’ll send money when I can.”

“Money?” Her tone sharpened.

“Child support.”

She tilted closer until he thought she’d tumble from her chair. “Child support?”

Was the woman hard of hearing? “I’m…not working much yet—” A painful admission though he’d long ago lost his pride. “When I do, I’ll send all I can.”

“I’m not asking for your money, Eli Donovan.”

“Isn’t that why you wanted to see me? Child support?”

With a shove of her cane, Opal pushed to a stand and tottered toward him, a dangerous expression on her wrinkled face. “Look at me. I’m eighty-four years old. I have congestive heart failure and diabetes. I can barely toddle around with this stupid cane.”

Dread started at the bottom of Eli’s feet and worked up through his chest and into his brain. Like a wild stallion, his flight instinct kicked in. He knew what was coming. Knew and couldn’t stop her.

“Mindy wanted you to take the boy. You’re his father.” Opal stuck a bony finger in his face. “She expected you to raise him.”

Eli bolted from the chair. “Are you nuts? Do you know where I’ve been all of his life?”

She pointed the cane at his chest. “You’re out now. And you have a son to care for.”

“I don’t belong around kids. I’m not even sure it’s legal.”

“Don’t be stupid. He’s your blood.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t take care of a child.”

A flash of Jessica’s face, bloated and white, floated through his head. Floated the way she had, facedown in the water, while he’d rocked to Michael Jackson through his Sony Walkman headphones.

“I don’t have a home or a steady job and no one wants to hire an ex-con. I’m at the beck and call of a parole officer who doesn’t like me much.” He rammed splayed fingers through his hair, panicked. “I can’t even take a leak without checking in first!”

“Stop raising your voice in my house. Do you want him to hear?”

His heart pounded as if he’d been the one under water too long. “Look, Opal, let’s be reasonable. What you’re asking is impossible. You don’t know me. I’m an ex-con. I am not father material. I wouldn’t know what to do with a kid.”

“Do you think any parent knows anything when their child is born? You’ll learn like everybody else.”

“Impossible.” He couldn’t take responsibility for anyone, especially a child. Dear God, she didn’t know what she was asking!

“Do you know what will become of the boy when I die?”

He shook his head. “Another relative, I suppose.”

“You got family that will take him? Love him?”

The ball of ice in Eli’s chest became an iceberg. “No.”

“All right, then. You’re his only other relative. He’ll go into foster care, into the system.” She spit the last word like profanity.

“Anywhere is better than with me. There are plenty of good foster parents who care for kids.”

“Mindy never wanted that for her baby.”

“I’m sorry, Opal. I can’t do this.” He stalked to the door, torn asunder but certain he was not a fit man to father a child. Ever. “I’ll send money as soon as I can.”

“Mindy defended you. She said you were a good man.” Opal’s thin lips curled. “She was wrong.”

“Yes. She was.” Tormented by the truth, Eli stormed out of the house, across the overgrown yard and into the safe confines of his car. Breathless, his chest aching, he cranked the Dodge, and was out on the streets of Honey Ridge in seconds.

At the corner, Eli stopped at the stop sign and leaned his head on the steering wheel. He was shaking worse than he had on his first day in prison.

He was the worst possible parent for a little boy, a man who had nothing to offer, a man with no future and an ugly past.

Responsibility tightened around his neck like a noose. He had a son. A son who needed him.

And he didn’t even know his name.