Page 132 of Price of Angels

“I always hoped a pretty sweet thing would convince him it pays to be polite every now and then. I want him to be happy.” His smile fell away and he sighed, shoulders slumping. “I ain’t sure he’s ever been happy.”

Holly scooped the onions into the hot, buttery skillet on the stove and cranked the heat another notch before she reached for the head of garlic. “He wasn’t happy here? I know he’s not now, but growing up on the farm…” She gestured with the knife, at a loss to describe the peace and wholesomeness of this simple, connected-to-the-earth life.

Wynn shook his head. “After what happened to his mama – nah, not really. That changed him. He was a quiet boy anyway, I think, but that–”

He clamped his lips together with a sudden start, like he was shocked he’d said what he had. “Ah, don’t listen to me,” he said with an unconvincing chuckle. “I’m rambling on like an old man.”

But Holly was snared. She scraped the minced garlic into a little pile on the cutting board and turned to face him fully, the onions hissing and sweating in the skillet behind her. “What happened to his mom?”

Her heart was thumping slow and hard at the base of her throat. Her mind was hit with kaleidoscope memories of her own mother. Her belly filled up with the old pain of loss, still raw after all these years.

Wynn traced a crack in the table with his thumb and his face worked silently, compressing and relaxing. “I figure if he wanted you to know, he’d have told you.” There was a strain in his voice, like he didn’t like keeping the secret.

“Mr. Chace,” Holly said, softly.

“Wynn,” he corrected.

“Wynn, Michael knows…everything about me. And he accepts me. Sometimes…” Her chest ached, tenderness and hope and despair crowding her lungs. “Sometimes I even think he loves me. And I wonder all the time what it is about him that could make him love someone like me.”

Wynn’s head lifted, his eyes wet and tired as they fixed to her face. “Sweetheart,” he said, and there was a wealth of sympathy, and kindness, and goodness wrapped up in the word.

“What happened to his mother?” she asked again.

Wynn took a deep breath and glanced away, toward the stove.

Hurriedly, Holly spun and dumped the garlic in the pan, turned down the heat, and added in the chicken thighs to brown. When she turned back, the old farmer was watching her without seeing her, his eyes faraway.

“She died,” he said. “Michael was only nine.”

“Oh no,” she breathed.

“Camilla was my baby sister. Little tiny thing, like a fairy. Likeyou. You remind me a lot of her.”

A lump swelled up in her throat.

“She was young, but she was a good mama. She loved her baby, doted on him with her time, because she couldn’t with money.”

An image began to form in Holly’s mind: a brown-haired young woman with a beaming smile, kissing Michael’s baby-soft nine-year-old cheek, smoothing down his dark hair with a loving hand. She could see the love, and the loss. There was never loss without love first. Michael would never have been as lonely as he was without incredible love, and the incredible snatching away of it.

“Her husband,” Wynn said, “Michael’s daddy.” He frowned, gaze distant, seeing the man in his memories. “He wasn’t good for nothin’ save drinkin’ and whorein’ and slappin’ women and children. I hated that sonovabitch. I don’t care if it ain’t Christian. I hated him.

“He killed Cami. It wasn’t sickness or an act of God that killed my sister. It was her damned evil husband, and the lamp he bashed her head in with.”

Holly pressed her knuckles to her lips and bit back the sudden rally of nausea.

The bed. The fresh light in the windows, shining silver on her mama’s pearly, white dead skin. The ropes. The dried blood smeared on the pillowcase. Lila’s sightless eyes staring up at her, one last unheard cry for help.

“Holly.” Wynn was on his feet suddenly, standing in front of her, hands on her shoulders, wrinkled face full of concern. “You alright? You okay?” His fingers squeezed lightly, questioning.

She shook her head, willing the mental image away. “I’m fine,” she said, but it sounded more like a gasp, like she was gulping air.

“You got real pale,” he said. “Do you feel alright? Do you need to sit down? Gosh damn it, I shouldna told you any of that.”

“I’m fine,” she repeated. She swallowed and her voice came out stronger. She was in a cold sweat, and her scalp prickled, but she forced a smile. “Really I am. I’m glad you told me.” She touched his forearms, reassuring. They were strong and thick. “I just was remembering something. Hearing about Michael’s mom triggered–” She swallowed again; she wouldn’t say it.

When he didn’t release her, expression unconvinced, she pulled away, forcing his hands open. Holly put her back to him, blinking the film of tears from her eyes. She had to turn the chicken thighs; she reached for the tongs, dragging in a deep breath.

Wynn turned and put his back to the counter on the other side of the stove. He watched her as she worked, and battled her emotions.

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