Page 27 of I'm Not Yours
“Not at all. Bawled like a baby. Many times. He had your photos in his wallet, along with your momma’s, and I saw him staring at them time and time again.”
The tears welled out of my eyes. I was touched by what she said about my dad, but I was red-hot mad. He found love for us at the end of hislife?
“This painting—” I changed the subject. I’d had enough. I was going to explode. “I’d like to buy it.”
“Let me wrap it up for you, honey.”
“You’re a talented artist, Pearl.”
“Thank you.” She paused. “Perhaps . . . perhaps we could have lunch one day? You could come over here. I’ll kill one of the chickens and we’ll have avocado pesto chicken sandwiches and lemonade.”
I blinked, surprised. I had lived in the city a long time. I wasn’t used to such outward friendliness or having someone offer to twist a chicken’s neck for me. “Yes, yes, I would like that. Thank you.” Looking into her kind eyes, I realized that I would.
“We can talk about your dad if you want. Or we can leave the ole saddle-buster out of the whole thing.”
“I . . . I don’t know what I want. I don’t know if I want to hear about it . . . I think I do, maybe not . . .”
She put her hands on my shoulders. “Don’t make a decision now, sweetie. We’ll start as girlfriends.”
“Thank you.” I gave her my debit card to pay for the apple-tree painting with the amazing details.
“I refuse,” Pearl said. “It’s my gift to you, Allie. I know that your dad would want you to have it, too. I’m sorry about your daddy, sweetheart.” She gave me a hug. “He was sorry, too.” She gave me another hug. “You know there’s a barn dance coming up, right, sugar?”
I found a hammer and nails in the garage and I hung up Pearl’s painting over the fireplace. It added life, color, fantasy, and imagination.
I sat down on the couch with my mother’s red-and-white flowered quilt, took a peek at my dad holding open the bedroom door in his urn, and wrapped my arms tight around myself.
He had become a good man too late.
Way too late.
I read Jane Austen that night, lying under my yellow bedspread, then a crime thriller, and back to Jane. My strawberry scented candle flickered on the nightstand. I couldn’t sleep and ended up pacing through the orchard, Bob and Margaret running around me in circles. I studied the constellations. I found no peace in them.
9
I recognized him immediately.
Jace was clad in a bike helmet and dark glasses hunched over his racing bike, making the bike look small. We were about to pass each other in the middle of a quiet, winding road, a vineyard to one side, a farm on the other, the morning sun warm, a bunch of birds peeping.
I kept biking. Maybe he wouldn’t recognize me. I was pedaling slowly because my ankle and leg were still tender, but I crossed to the other side of the street and turned my head away to hide my face. I, too, had on a helmet and dark glasses.
We passed. I exhaled with deep relief, before the choking sadness that has chased me around since I lost Jace years ago came roaring back, like grief on wheels. I put my head down and pedaled as hard as I could without splitting my leg open, as I’d always done to outride what I didn’t want to think about.
“Good to see you on your bike, Allie.”
I turned my head. He was right next to me, smiling.
Handsome. Overpoweringly manly and muscled and huge. “I can’t believe this,” I muttered.
“Where are you riding to?”
“I think I’m riding away from you. You go that way, I’ll go this way.” I tugged on the strap of my helmet as we pedaled beside each other.
“I was just thinking that I wanted to backtrack.”
“You never backtrack.”
“I can think of a lot of backtracking I’d like to do.”
