Page 81 of Lady and the Butcher
“The back,” I said, picturing the small window that looked out on the oak with the noisy squirrel.
“Sheets are clean,” he said. “I can put fresh lemons in the basket if you want lemonade. Your granddad will insist on taking you to Matanzas Fish House the first night. He’s been talking about their key lime pie for three days.”
I laughed, surprised by the sound. “That sounds perfect.”
He didn’t ask why. He didn’t ask when I would arrive. He said, “Text me when you hit the bridge,” and, “Drive safe,” and, “I love you,” in that order.
“I love you, too,” I said. The ache in my chest loosened another notch.
I set the phone down and looked around my house. The suitcase was ready.
I went downstairs and did small things. Took out the trash. Wiped the counter. Tucked the spare key under the blue planter. Checked the locks twice. It felt like packing up a version of myself and promising to return.
I should tell Atticus. I should send a text now, while my courage held. I typed.I need a few days. Going to my dad’s. I’m safe.I watched the blinking cursor like it could give me a sign. I didn’t hit send.
Coward. Self-protective. Both.
On my way to the door, I stopped at the hall table. There was a framed photo there of all of us on the beach the summer before the twins left for college. Mom and Dad stood shoulder to shoulder, her hand hooked into his elbow. Stephen had his arms around the twins from behind, their faces lit with that cocky energy of boys who were about to fly the nest. Darla stood beside me, her hair whipped across her cheek by the wind, laughing at something no one else had caught. I had my hand thrown up like I had just gotten away with something. We were all squinting into the sun. It was a good picture.
I traced the edge of the frame. Dad’s parents had been in St. Augustine when they’d taken that picture. Healthy then. Slowing now. I could already feel the weight of my grandmother’s hug, thin and strong. I could hear my grandfather’s laugh, the one that crinkled his whole face. The thought steadied me.
At the door, I hesitated, just for a moment. My suitcase waited. My phone sat in my palm like a live thing. I pictured Atticus’s name lighting the screen. I pictured the shape my mouth would make when I told him. I pictured the shape his mouth would make when he heard it.
Enough.
I wheeled the suitcase out to the car, then loaded the trunk and got in. For a long minute, I didn’t move. My pulse beat so loud it drowned the hum of the air conditioner.
“I need this,” I said out loud, because sometimes you have to hear it.
The words didn’t erase the fear. They steadied my hands enough to put the car in drive.
I merged onto the highway and watched the city unspool in the rearview. My house was behind me. The shop would open without me. The river would keep moving.
Maybe Atticus would be angry. Maybe he would understand. Maybe he would do both.
The road stretched long and straight. I rolled the window down a few inches and let the warm air slap my cheek. Finally, my breath started to even out.
26
Later that day, the Bridge of Lions rose in front of me. The marble cats watched the Matanzas flash silver and green, and the masts in the marina nodded as if they knew something I didn’t. I rolled the window down and let St. Augustine in. Salt. Fry oil. Wet stone. A busker somewhere playing a song that had been worn smooth by tourists’ feet.
Dad’s street sat two blocks off the beach in a pocket of sun-bleached cottages and stubborn sea grass. His place was the same as always. White paint that peeled in long curls. A porch with a sway in one board that announced you, if you forgot to step wide. The live oak out front wore a strand of somebody’s Mardi Gras beads from three summers ago. I parked under its shade and turned the key off. The quiet that followed was its own sound.
My phone stayed dark on the passenger seat. I hadn’t told Atticus I was leaving. I hadn’t told him I had crossed a state line.
I picked up the phone and set it back down. Then I grabbed my suitcase from the back and hauled it up the steps.
Dad opened the door before I could knock. He had a dish towel over one shoulder and a smile that creased both cheeks. He smelled like laundry soap and cedar and coffee.
“There she is,” he said, quiet but bright. He stepped aside as if I might spook.
I went into his arms and stayed there until my ribs stopped feeling like a cage. He didn’t ask a single question. He held on, then stepped back and looked at my face like a mechanic looks at a dashboard. Not prying. Just checking the lights.
“You hungry?” he asked. “I can do shrimp or we can head into town and get you a Hyppo pop like you’re eight again.”
“Either. Or both,” I said, and he laughed under his breath, pleased like I had passed some test.
The cottage looked the same as the last time I had come down. A neat kitchen with a mismatched mug collection that had grown by two. Shells lined the windowsill from walks he would never brag about. The back room waited with its small bed and the window that watched the oak. Grandma had left zinnias on the table and a note that said LEMONS ON THE COUNTER. USE THEM. Her handwriting always stuck the landing.
