Page 30 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“Of course not.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“I just think it’s good to be prepared,” Berneda said as Lucille appeared again.

“Are you all stayin’ for dinner?” Lucille’s smile was benign, as if she had no idea how serious the conversation was.

Berneda nodded. “Of course they are.”

“Not me.” Amanda checked her watch. “I’ve got tons more work to do. Tons. I won’t get home until midnight as it is.” She caught the wounded look in her mother’s eye and sighed. “I just ran out here to see that you were okay. I know this kind of thing shakes you up. When I get this project done, I’ll come out for a weekend. How does that sound?”

“Like it will never happen,” Berneda said, though she brightened a bit.

“Of course it will. It’s a date. Promise.”

She’d barely said the words when her cell phone chirped and she fished in her purse to find the phone, flip it open and put it to her ear. She walked to the far side of the porch, started talking in hushed tones and turned her back on her siblings and mother. “I know, I know . . . but there was a tragedy in the family. I’ll be there. Yes. Tell him twenty minutes, thirty tops . . . hey, I get it, okay. Remind him it’s Saturday. He’s lucky I’m working.” She snapped the phone shut and let out a long sigh, then squared her shoulders and faced her family again. “I really do have to run right now. But I’ll be back, promise.” Dropping the phone into her bag, she brushed a kiss across her mother’s cheek. “I’ll bring Ian, too,” Amanda vowed and Berneda’s smile froze at the mention of her son-in-law. Amanda’s husband was a corporate pilot for a timber company. He was often away, rarely making an appearance at any family function. Good looking and fit, he was the kind of man who could charm the birds from the trees. The only trouble was that as soon as they got close enough, he’d shoot them. Dead. And love every second of it. There was a dark side to Ian Drummond, one he seldom showed, one Caitlyn had once caught a glimpse of, though she’d never admitted it to a soul. Would never.

Amanda touched Caitlyn lightly on the arm, her fingers grazing the bandage under her sweater. Caitlyn froze, hardly daring to breathe. What if Amanda felt the gauze wrapped so tightly around her wrist? She pulled her arm away. “Call me if you need to,” Amanda said with the trace of a smile. “And if you’re not going to answer your phone, at least turn on your damned cell. I tried that, too.”

“I will,” Caitlyn promised and Amanda squeezed her arm, nearly sending Caitlyn through the roof of the porch.

“Do.” She slipped her sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose and hurried down the path, leaving with a roar of her car’s engine, disappearing as quickly as she’d come.

“Well, that’s that,” Troy said, scowling as he drew hard on his cigarette. “She’s done her duty.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Berneda was pushing herself upright.

“Just that Amanda does the bare minimum as far as the family is concerned.”

“You don’t believe she’s busy?” Berneda shook her head and Caitlyn noticed a few silver hairs that had dared make an appearance in her mother’s mahogany colored tresses. “You two have never gotten along.”

That much was true. Caitlyn remembered the animosity between her eldest sister and her brother. It seemed to have existed from the moment Troy had been brought home from the hospital and still lingered today, over thirty years later. “Where’s Hannah?” Caitlyn asked, as much to ease the tension as anything.

“Out.” Berneda looked away. “She left last night.”

“For where?”

“I don’t know. She was angry.”

“With—?” Caitlyn urged.

“The world. Me. Lucille and whoever happened to call.” Berneda lifted one hand in a gesture of dismissal. “You know how she gets. Has a stubborn streak. Just like her father had. I don’t know . . . I don’t know if she’s even heard about Josh yet, but she will.” Berneda checked her watch. “There’s certain to be something on the evening news. I suppose, whether we want to watch it or not, we should.”

Caitlyn didn’t know if she could get through an evening sitting on a couch and staring at the television while reporters dissected, rehashed, explained and made conjectures about her husband’s death. But she had to. Sooner or later she had to face the truth about what happened to her husband. In the next few days, it certainly wasn’t going to get any easier.

Eight

“They all belong at Warner Brothers Studios,” Sylvie said as she sauntered into Reed’s office bringing with her the scent of some musky perfume and a whiff of recently smoked cigarettes. She’d been home and checked on her kids, but had obviously found another sitter and was back at the station.

“Who belongs at Warner Brothers?”

“The Montgomerys, that’s who. Those people are looney-effin’ -tunes!” She leaned against the windowsill in his office, bracing herself with her hands.

“Effin?”

“I’m tryin’ to clean it up, okay?” She rolled her eyes expressively. “My kids are seven and three, and you don’t know how bad your language is until you hear it come back at you from them. What’s the old saying, ‘From the mouths of babes . . .?’ Well it’s the truth. The other night I’m doin’ the dishes and the kids are in the family room, just around the corner. I hear Toby call his sister a buckin’ pwick . . . probably overheard me talking about his dad.” Sylvie shrugged. “Anyway, Priscil

la laughed and told him how stupid he was, that girls couldn’t be pricks and it wasn’t bucking but fucking . . . Oh, well, you get my drift.” Her lips twisted at the irony of it all. “I told ’em both to knock it off, but Priscilla reminded me that my language was as bad as a sewer rat’s so we all agreed to put a quarter in the Hello Kitty bank . . . Now wait, don’t give me that look! Surely you’ve heard of Hello Kitty.” She stared at him as if he’d told her he had three balls.

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