Firefly Summer Page 6

  But now that Pansie was a little older …

  While she climbed into her car pondering the possibilities, she also found her mind wandering to the mysterious stranger with the affinity for meatloaf and potatoes with extra ketchup. Maybe it was Mama’s comments, or maybe it was something else, but she couldn’t shake the feeling she knew him from somewhere.

  All the way home, she alternated between searching her mind for the source of muscle man’s familiarity and trying to put him out of her thoughts altogether. Back home she traded her sundress for jeans and T-shirt and headed for the back of the property, where her studio stood beneath the shade of a trio of ancient pecan trees. With Pansie spending the night at Mama’s, best not to squander the hours she could be working.

  As she strolled past the garage where Pansie’s baby swing and cradle had been stored, she gave passing thought to the day she’d purchased those things. What a precious blessing that child had turned out to be.

  She hurried past the garage and unlatched the door to her studio. Before she could swing the door open, her cell phone rang. The caller ID showed unknown caller. Probably Pansie’s pediatrician calling to remind her of her check-up next week.

  She kicked the wooden block in front of the old door to keep it open and greeted the caller.

  No response.

  “Hello?” she repeated as she closed the distance to the switch to flood the space with light.

  “Mrs. Chambers?” The voice was deep, halting, and distinctly Southern.

  “Yes.” Sessa opened the door of the small fridge Mama had given her last Christmas. Bypassing a Baby Bop cup filled with milk, two pears, and a small container of apple juice, Sessa reached for a bottle of water and took a healthy swig.

  As the silence lengthened on the phone, irritation began. She really should get something accomplished. “Hello? Who is this?”

  Apparently not the doctor’s office.

  “I’m sorry. I never meant to …” The last word was choked off by what sounded like a sob.

  “Excuse me? Who is this?”

  The line went dead.

  Sessa shook her head and tossed the cordless phone onto her workbench. “I really need to stop answering calls where the identification is blocked.”

  She turned to study the project at hand. An authentic Allan Herschell Company Half and Half horse lay in pieces on the surgical table turned workbench. Made in 1949, the great beast’s cast metal head and legs sported new paint, but its wooden body still needed some work. Its companion, a standing zebra with flowing mane restored and crated for shipping, stood in the corner of the room next to the pieces of a second crate.

  Friday morning, Jared Chance, the UPS driver, would arrive at precisely ten-thirty to pick up both horses. Neither Jared nor the curators in Detroit would understand if she didn’t meet the deadline. Not only that, but Jared, who hated to come all the way out Firefly Road just to go back empty-handed, would most likely tell his mama.

  Robin worked down at the Pup Cake Bakery and Doggie Diner and delivered cupcakes and homemade dog treats to Vonnette and the girls at the Hairport every Monday. Once Vonnette got wind of things, she would be on the phone to Mama, who would then call Sessa wondering why she had to find out from Robin that Sessa was falling behind on work. And goodness knows they’d all think she was slacking off and not working as hard as she ought to be. Which of course wasn’t anybody’s business, though that’s exactly what made it so interesting, she supposed.

  Whoever said living in a small town was peaceful and quiet had never lived in a small town.

  Sessa turned her attention to the equine “patient” sprawled on the stainless steel worktable. A little paint and some chiseling along the horse’s flank, and it would be ready to go. She could probably be finished in a couple of hours.

  She went over the horse’s body with fine sandpaper then wiped it clean with cheesecloth. The paint went on next, in colors painstakingly chosen to replicate the original.

  Hours later, leaving the paint to dry, she returned to the kitchen to take on an even harder project—making pies for the PB&J ladies. Once she’d placed them in the oven, she could turn her attention to straightening up the house then move on to what would obviously be the best part of the evening, finishing the novel.

  Tomorrow she could start bright and early on the remainder of the Detroit Museum project, finishing the horse with varnish and checking the zebra for last minute touch-ups. If all went well, she would have everything done before noon when Mama would return with Pansie.

  “In a perfect world, anyway,” she muttered, reaching for the measuring cups.

  While she gathered the flour and other ingredients, her thoughts gravitated back to Ross, who had loved to help her cook just like Pansie did now. Those same eyes that had looked up at her two decades before now watched her again from the eager face of her granddaughter.

  “That’s the Lord’s blessing and a sore subject all at the same time.”

  She shoved away the memories with a roll of her shoulders and moved her consideration to Pansie’s mother, who had all but disappeared from the face of the earth. Just a kid herself, that girl had no idea what she was missing by not being here to appreciate her daughter.

  Thankfully, neither did Pansie. “Enough of that.” Maybe she thought about the past far too much and the future far too little.

  Sessa reached for the flour canister and dusted the counter top, then reached into the fridge for the piecrust dough. It was a true mystery how God determined who ended up raising who, and a bigger mystery at why she was chosen to bring up the feisty toddler. Only He could explain the reasoning behind it all.

  Behind anything He did, actually. She’d stopped trying to understand on the day Pansie came to live with her. No, that wasn’t true. It was the day she lost Ross.

  It wasn’t like she had contemplated Ross’ death every day for the past two years. Some days she was just too tired, either with childrearing or work. Other days, thoughts of Mama and her dating misadventures or Pansie and her quest to run faster than she could walk held her mind in a welcome—or sometimes unwelcome—distraction.

  For good reason she’d avoided attending the trial, shunned the media, and refused to hear any details about the man who’d ended her Ross’ life. She never wanted to set eyes on a picture of Dr. Dalton Brown, III, wanted no image in her mind to imagine standing over the dead body of her son. For the same reason, she forbade any discussion of the man—or the subject—in her presence.

  Besides, if she knew him, she would have to forgive him. To hate a nameless, faceless stranger seemed much less of a sin than to refuse to grant forgiveness to a flesh and blood man.

  Then she accidentally caught a glimpse of him when she turned on the television a week or so ago. He’d been let loose. Not pardoned but released a free man when his conviction was overturned.

  Meaning to turn the blasted thing off, Sessa had hit the pause button on the remote and frozen the killer’s face on that big flat screen television she’d splurged on last Christmas. Suddenly there he was, the man whose face she’d avoided.

  The man who’d ended Ross’s life.

  The cameras had been trained on him as he left the courtroom at the end of the trial. He wore a suit and tie in a dark color, brown maybe, and his hands were shackled in front of him, a Harris County deputy ushering him out a side door to begin his prison sentence for murder.

  The caption beneath the photo said three words: Doctor Declared Innocent. That much she’d already heard from Coco.

  She’d found a chair. Sunk into it. Sat very still with the remote in her hand and the image of that doctor providing the only light in a darkened living room.

  Her finger had wavered above the off button. Then her eyes found his. And she knew.

  The man on that screen, the doctor the jury had sentenced to prison, was no more guilty of Ross’s death than she. He may have held the knife, but she was the one who’d allowed her grief at losing her husba
nd to overshadow her responsibility to raise up their only son to be a good man.

  She and her selfish grief had failed Ross. That doctor and his knife were just the last stop on a road that started at her door. Ignoring that fact was what had kept her from driving to Houston and testifying. Had kept her from standing up in court and admitting her son was every bit the kind of person who’d do what was claimed he’d done.

  It was surely the reason why she’d pushed every detail of this bone-crushing loss into the safe place where she now kept these sorts of memories. Sessa balled her fists and declared once again to the Lord and herself that she had learned from her mistake. Pansie would never face life with a parent who was absent even though she was standing right in front of her.

  But what about that doctor?

  Could she have said something that kept him from leaving out that side door? That kept his eyes—innocent eyes—from looking into the lens of that camera as he tasted his last moments of freedom?

  “Gwammy?” Pansie’s gleeful cry arrived in the kitchen a moment before she did.

  “Who’s that?” Sessa called, grateful for the respite from her guilt.

  “Pansie and Nanny.” The dark-haired angel launched herself toward Sessa then giggled when her grandmother pretended to drop her before hefting her securely into her arms.

  “I missed you so much.” Sessa breathed in the scent of baby shampoo and squeezed the little girl tighter. “I think you grew a foot while you were at school today, Pansie girl.” She swiped at the red Kool-Aid ring around her granddaughter’s mouth.

  A matching stain decorated the front of her pink OshKosh overalls, and a few dots embellished her white Keds. The entire outfit would have to be thrown into the wash before the color became permanent, and Pansie would need a bubble bath and a scrubbing as well.

  Such was life with Pansie Chambers. How dull Sessa’s world would be today if the little girl hadn’t come to stay.

  A rhyme. Sessa smiled.

  Mama strolled in with Pansie’s diaper bag slung over one shoulder and a stack of mail and Pansie’s sippy cup cradled in her arms. “You know how that girl loves seeing what’s in the mailbox,” Mama said as two bills and a Priority Mail envelope tumbled from her arms and slid to the floor along with the cup. “You’ve got mail.”

  Sessa knelt to retrieve them, allowing Pansie to wiggle out of her arms. While the toddler made haste for the Tupperware drawer, Sessa set the cup and bills aside to rip open the red, white and blue wrapper and snatched out the letter.

  A familiar logo danced across the page, and her heart lurched. She read the first sentence and then the second. The words swam in front of her eyes.

  “Nanny, look,” Pansie called as she tossed a yellow plastic cup lid into the air. “I cook.”

  “Yes, darling, you cook very well. Maybe you can help Grammy with her pies tonight.” Mama settled beside her on the floor and blew Pansie a kiss. “What is it, Sessa?”

  Her eyes scanned the page, drinking in the words one more time. “I got the job,” she breathed.

  “What job, Sessa?” Mama leaned in to read over her shoulder. “Oh! You got the job! The Smithsonian wants you to do the restoration work for the carousel exhibit!”

  Numb, Sessa nodded. “They do, don’t they?”

  “But that wasn’t supposed to happen until the end of the month.” Mama shook her head. “And yet here it is!”

  “Yes.” Sessa lifted her gaze to a place well above the ceiling of her kitchen and gave thanks. “Here it is.”

  Of all the candidates, the Smithsonian had selected her to facilitate the restoration project that had been in limbo for almost two years. The job was huge, the honor of being chosen even bigger.

  Their gazes locked, and Mama began to giggle. Sessa joined her, and Pansie chimed in, though the child had no idea what had them tickled.

  “Gwammy funny,” the little girl said as she attempted to walk in circles with her feet stuck into a pair of green plastic tumblers and a blue salad bowl on her head.

  “My Pansie girl’s pretty funny too.” Sessa sagged against the cabinet. “Mama, how am I going to accept this offer? There’s just one of me, and there’s so much to do in such a short time.”

  Her mother shrugged. “I don’t know, honey. What were you going to do before the project got put on hold?”

  “I thought I might put an ad in the paper, maybe hire someone to help with the carpentry end of things. I’d even thought I could delegate some of the basic painting and prep work.”

  Mama patted her arm and smiled. “Then I suggest you get busy placing the ad. It’s nearly four, and you know how Ella likes to set her watch ahead so she can get home from the paper in time to see Wheel of Fortune.”

  “You know, if I take on this project, I won’t have time to hunt for a husband.”

  She couldn’t say what prompted her to speak the outlandish words. Maybe it was that ounce of fear that she couldn’t really do this project, could she? Or maybe it was the memory of that split-second connection with the handsome cowboy in the diner.

  And Mama knew she wasn’t on the market for a husband, but she only narrowed her eyes slightly and waved away the comment with a regal sweep of her hand. “The Lord’s already taken care of that, Sessa. I told you that back at the diner.”

  Before Sessa could respond, her granddaughter waddled over to place a salad bowl on Sessa’s head. “You Queen, Nanny,” she said. “Gwammy too.”

  Mama climbed to her feet and clasped Pansie’s hands in her own. In a regal tone, she replied, “My precious Princess Pansie, I will have to pass on your generous offer.” She cast a glance past Sessa’s head at the pitiful excuse for piecrust hardening on the counter. “It appears the Queen Mother will be making pies tonight.”

  Sessa set the envelope and its contents on the counter. “I beg your pardon. I am perfectly capable of making pies for tomorrow night.”

  “Of course you are, dear. Because you’ve learned so much since your last attempt. You weren’t considering peanut butter, were you? Although I’m sure none of the ladies remember those peanut butter pies.” She shook her head. “I still don’t understand why you agreed to trade with Vonnette anyway. Not only are you responsible for hosting the club meeting, but you’re also providing the pie. What were you thinking, Sessa?”

  “Mama,” Sessa said when her mother finally took a breath, though her warning tone was laced with humor. Despite all attempts to the contrary, she was an abysmal pie chef. “I can just call down to the Blue Plate and have Sue Ellen or Carly set aside a four pies for me to pick up tomorrow.”

  “There’s no need for that,” Mama said. “You celebrate this new job of yours and let me do it just this once. Next month when it’s my turn to provide the pies, I’ll let you bring them, even if it means they come from the Blue Plate. How’s that?”

  Sessa knew her mother would never let that happen, but she had thirty days to figure out a way around it. “It’s a deal.” She scooped Pansie into her arms and headed down the hall. “Let me get her cleaned up a bit and throw a couple of outfits into a bag, and the princess will be ready for her royal coach.”

  “Don’t forget her leotard,” Mama called. “Tomorrow’s tap day, and the ladies would never forgive me if I didn’t bring Princess Pansie.”

  Mama had been teaching tap dance at the senior center twice weekly for nearly a decade. Before that she’d educated most of Sugar Pine’s female population and a couple of the males on the art of tap and ballet at Bonnie Sue’s Academy of Dance. While she failed miserably at teaching Sessa the finer points of the art form, she seemed bound and determined not to make the same mistake with Pansie.

  Now mostly retired, Mama still managed to teach those two classes each week. When she wasn’t busy with any of the other activities that kept time and age from catching up to her.

  Half an hour later, a freshly washed and dried Pansie left with Mama. Another quarter-hour went by before the classified ad was written and post
ed with Ella down at the Journal just before the five o’clock deadline.

  The plea for help would arrive on Sugar Pine’s front porches with the sunrise. Maybe she’d have a few qualified candidates to choose from and possibly a full-time employee soon after.

  With the envelope tucked under her arm, Sessa practically floated back to the studio. The scent of sawdust and varnish settled around her as she stepped inside and closed the door, a comforting blend that felt more like home than any smell she could conjure up in her kitchen or any candle she could buy.

  She stood very still in the center of the overhead light’s bright circle of illumination, the Priority Mail envelope now hugged tightly to her chest. A giggle started somewhere deep and solid, from a place where joy began and faith simmered. Slowly that giggle floated up on the wings of something bigger, lighter.

  Hope.

  Delicious hope.

  Chapter Seven

  Two days later, Trey tossed the phone onto the seat beside him and turned off the ignition while the garage door closed behind him. Silence enveloped him as he relived the pitiful attempt at discharging his duty to apologize to the Chambers woman.

  Calling her hadn’t worked. He had known it wouldn’t, and yet the thought of a telephone conversation had been much more palatable than actually standing in front of her and saying the words.

  He hadn’t been able to do that either, although he had sat in that diner for over an hour with Sessa Chambers so close he could almost touch her. Had eaten everything on his plate and pretended to be just any other paying customer. The coward’s choice, and yet looking into the woman’s eyes and admitting he killed her child was something he hadn’t yet decided how to manage.

  Maybe he’d been blindsided by her youth and beauty. The mother of a kid like Ross Chambers shouldn’t have had that smile or those bright blue eyes. Shouldn’t have been surrounded by people who appeared to love her and enjoy her company.