Once she was well into the trees, she paused and looked back. In the dark, there was no way the man could see her, but she could see him. He had turned off the light in the barn and now stood by the back door of the house, one hand on the doorknob. Daisy stood beside him, looking up at his face.
Rae waited. What was he doing? A minute marched by. He raised his chin and looked at the upstairs window above the door, then hung his head. Even from fifty feet away, the weight on his shoulders was visible.
Where had he come from? Was he married to the woman with the blond hair who sat at the table alone? Why had Rae never seen him before?
“He looks sad.”
Mr. Whiskers meowed.
“Shh. Let’s go home.”
The trail back to her neighborhood was black as pitch, but Rae knew it by heart. With every step she took closer to her house, the weight on her own shoulders grew. She was worried and scared about driving. That was true. But it was more than that. Something was going on with her parents. And something else had been bothering her more and more lately.
She knew where she was headed. The Plan was set. And everyone else in her life knew who she was and what she should do and how her future would turn out.
But what if she failed?
“God’s got big plans for you,” Papa Tom always used to say.
She reached her house and stole quietly into the garage. Mr. Whiskers fought to get down so she set him gently on his feet.
“What if He doesn’t, Mister?”
The old cat rubbed against her legs, his fur the color of thunderclouds in the dim light.
“What if He’s just got regular, ordinary plans for me?”
No. She couldn’t think like that. Couldn’t let Papa Tom down—the late, great Judge McDaniel.
Her throat tightened. She missed him. Missed the way he used to tug on her ear with a smile and say, “I’m praying for you,” even though she had no idea why he did that. Why he thought God had some kind of special purpose for her.
She just added it to the list of expectations she needed to meet. “God’s got big plans for you.” How do you live up to that? Somehow she would find a way. She thought of her parents’ standoff in the kitchen earlier and drew a determined breath. Yes, she would find a way.
Mr. Whiskers pawed at the door as if he suddenly remembered his food dish. She put her hand on the doorknob and pasted on a smile. She didn’t know how, but she would do it. For Mom and Dad. For Papa Tom.
“Okay, Mister.” She twisted the knob. “Time to shine.”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Friday morning was dreary and wet. Gerrit could feel the damp chill in his aching bones.
He looked out the window and frowned. “Don’t forget your umbrella.”
Hannie rinsed her coffee mug in the sink. “My coat has a hood.”
Gerrit scoffed to himself. A hood could not compete with an umbrella for protection from the rain. She should keep an umbrella in her car at all times, in fact. He wanted to tell her so. The resolute look on her face as she punched her arms through the sleeves of her jacket and flipped the hood over her head dared him to tell her so.
He did not dare.
“About Memorial Day . . .”
She tensed. “You are welcome to call the kids and ask them about it if you like.”
It was the same overly polite tone of voice she used when someone from the shop called her after work hours. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was smart enough not to engage in that particular conversation.
“Maybe we can go see a movie tonight.” Surely this was a safer topic. “You know that one about the mailbox?”
She finished lacing up her shoes and stood to face him. “What?”
He swallowed hard. “That mailbox movie . . .”
Her crow’s feet appeared. “You want to go to a movie.”
It wasn’t a question, he knew that, yet her tone was indecipherable. She looked at him like he’d spoken Chinese. What did she have against the movies?
“It looks funny.”
She took a long moment to answer. “I’ll probably be home pretty late. I’ve got a gal out sick right now.”
He leaned against the wall, trying to act casual. “Oh. Okay.”
She threw the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “Is that the one with that Steven Douglas guy in it?”
He blinked. Who the heck was Steven Douglas? Aside from Clint Eastwood, Gerrit probably couldn’t name a single actor. But the mailbox movie did have a guy in it. He could easily be named Steven. “Um . . .”
“That guy’s annoying.” She opened the door and stepped into the rain. “See you tonight.”
Then she was gone.
Gerrit stared at the closed door for a minute or two. Did that mean she didn’t want to see the movie? The idea of going to the theater alone made his chest hurt.
Daisy grew impatient and wagged her tail for attention. It thumped against the blue-and-white suitcase propped against the wall. He ought to throw the stupid thing in the garbage, but he couldn’t touch it. He had no right. Daisy eyed the suitcase and rammed the top of her head against his leg.
He looked at the suitcase. Looked at the dog. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Well, she certainly hadn’t meant anything by it, if you could believe the innocent look on her face. Which he didn’t.
Back in the kitchen, he paused in front of the calendar hanging next to the fridge. April 12. He jabbed the calendar with his finger and counted. One, two. Flipped to May and continued. Three, four, five, six. Six weeks until Memorial Day weekend.
Hannie had not talked to Evi and Noah about coming, and he couldn’t blame her. She’d been busy with work,
