One Lavender Ribbon (12 page)

It had been two weeks since she had first met William Bryant and his irritating grandson. She had returned his letters, but not before making a copy, and then visited while Will was at work. William had invited her back. The two of them struck up a friendship, and she’d returned to visit him four times since. Over the course of time, Adrienne noticed something. He talked more about Sara than he did about Grace.

Adrienne forced Grace from her mind, but couldn’t erase Sara so easily. William spoke of her often. She’d heard so much about the sassy tomboy, she felt as though she knew her.

Plunked down on the bed with her arms spread wide, she closed her eyes and imagined her house a half century earlier. This was Sara’s room, she was sure. Sara was the sports lover, and Adrienne discovered marks on the wall in the corner of the room where someone had repeatedly bounced a ball enough times to leave rings on the wall and an impression on the hardwood floor.

Sara loved basketball, according to the letters, and at the time of William’s departure was hoping to grow tall enough to play with the boys who met every afternoon at the park on the corner.

Suddenly reminded of her own childhood, Adrienne sprang from the bed and flipped on the light.

She examined the doorframes. Her long fingers slid up one doorjamb, scanning as she went, and down the next, looking for the telltale markings she hoped to find.

Children were always intrigued with how much they’d grown. Adrienne’s father used to hold a ruler to her head, stand her against the wall, and make a tiny mark, dating it, and she would read each date in awe of how much taller she’d become. At first, Adrienne’s mom had been angry that her father was marking up the doorframe. But she’d quickly softened as she watched her child grow up before her eyes. Within a year, it was Adrienne’s mom who was calling her over to study the makeshift growth chart.

After working her way around the room and finding nothing, she thought about Sara’s mom. She would have been furious if she’d discovered her daughter had written on the wall. Adrienne’s eyes fell on the closet.

She pulled the closet door open and tugged the string on the solitary light. The dusty bulb threw a muted glow into the small empty space. Adrienne had to step completely inside to find the notches she was looking for. Standing where Sara’s clothes once hung, there they were.

The marks contained no years. Instead, each scribbled line denoted a day and a month. Sara had grown between January and March. But after April, her growth seemed to slow. Then a jump in July. That mark put her close to Adrienne’s height. She ran her fingers over the lines, then dropped her weight against the back wall of the closet. The stillness closed around her. She thought about life in the forties. What was it like to be a girl who loved to play ball and fish with live worms? Sure, that was accepted behavior now, but had not been as much back then.

Sara’s mom probably hated it. From all Adrienne could gather, Sara’s mom wanted girly girls with ribbons and bows and lace. How did she handle having a tomboy for a daughter? Probably not well at all. Adrienne pulled in a breath, tugged her weight off the back wall, and wished she knew more about Sara. As if some great power heard her plea, the rusty nail found its way into her foot.

Adrienne felt the raw sensation of tearing flesh at the same time she tripped. She caught herself by the doorjamb, fingers tight over Sara’s growth marks. She glanced down at her bare feet, already knowing by the pain in her left heel what had happened.

The bathroom door was only a few hobbles away. She walked on her toes, bearing as little weight on the injured heel as possible. With her foot propped against the sink and counter, she cleaned the fresh cut. It wasn’t deep, so Adrienne poured on rubbing alcohol, sucked in air through her teeth, and wondered how sore it would be the next day. A square bandage covered the wound.

Leaving the bathroom, she discovered a neat red trail of dots from the bath to the bedroom. “Great,” she muttered, and snagged an old towel from beneath the sink. She kept a good stash of ratty towels there because she was constantly filthy from the remodel. She’d ruined a set of expensive ones by thinking her hands were clean after refitting a pipe in the kitchen. Blue gunk still decorated that washcloth and hand towel.

Adrienne dropped to her knees at the first bead of blood. She scrubbed each as she moved along, her heel throbbing its own conga beat as she went and her knees screaming for kneepads. At least she didn’t have to get a tetanus shot. That little journey had taken place one week after arrival, when a loose nail in the shutters ripped her arm open.

When the last droplet was cleaned—or at least smeared into the pockmarked wood floor enough to be unnoticeable—she stopped at the closet door again to catch her breath. Tiny beads of sweat popped out across her forehead and caused her hair to stick to her temples. Once she was inside the closet, she saw the nail protruding near a final spot of her blood. She moved in carefully, no longer trusting the wood floor, and rubbed the rag against the stain, cautious not to catch her finger on the evil nail.

Loose wood shifted under the pressure of the hand towel. At first, Adrienne thought nothing of the creak, creak, creak sound it made. But something stopped her. She shifted her weight and noticed there were three nails in the floor that looked like they’d been removed and replaced many times. Hair hung in her face, obscuring portions of her view, so she gathered the strands on one side, spun them into a rope, and tucked it beneath the collar of her shirt.

The old plank flooring of the closet was a mix of short scrap pieces. Two pieces were loose enough to wiggle back and forth beneath the wobbly nails. She reached to the protruding spike that had snagged her foot and grabbed it. It slid out easily.

Adrienne adjusted to a more comfortable position and reached between the ill-fitting planks to get a decent grip. The first pulled up easily, groaning as it did. A gaping hole stared back. It was about six inches wide and ten inches long. Though it was covered in dust and cobwebs, she could see the distinct shape of something hidden inside.

She pushed the door open more to illuminate the space and cast a light into the shadowy hole. Brushing aside thoughts of spiders and other creepy crawlies, she reached under the other plank and tugged. It groaned, but wouldn’t give. She readjusted herself on her knees and tugged again. It moved only slightly, but it was enough to fuel her intent, so she rocked the plank back and forth until it finally gave up the battle. The scent of dust and decay rose.

Adrienne used her forearm to push back the hair that had escaped. Pieces were matted to her wet brow where even more sweat had accumulated in her struggle. She set this plank on the floor by the first one and reached into the hole.

The book was sheathed in a light cotton material that could once have been a piece of a bedsheet or part of an old dress. The cotton, though threadbare and decomposing, had kept the book safe for a very long time. Dust rose as she unwrapped it and examined the front cover.

It held no lock and looked to be an inexpensive journal. Brittle pages clicked as she pulled the book open to examine its inside cover. It was stiff from years of disuse, but the words were legible and clear. The front cover sported the name she had hoped she would find.

Adrienne hobbled from the room and down the stairs. Maybe she would get all her questions answered now. Maybe this would help her understand about Gracie and her bitter betrayal. And maybe Adrienne could get to know Sara from these pages.

Once at the table, Adrienne flipped the book open and hoped to find page after page of Sara’s thoughts.

Writing on page one. Two. Adrienne frowned, her fingers gliding through more pages, empty pages. Her eyes scanned as if her intensity could will words and thoughts into the book. Writing on page three. Her nose tickled with so much dust and she wriggled it, not wanting to sneeze.

Disappointment worked its way through her system. Only a few pages at the front of the book had been written on.
At least those might answer some questions
, she assured herself. But after thirty minutes of reading the same four entries over and over, Adrienne was more confused than ever.

Dear Diary,

I haven’t had a diary before, so I’m probably not going to be very good at this. I’m not planning on keeping this going for very long, but I have to have someone to talk to about what I’ve done.

I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but I know it’s going to. Gracie is gone, and Momma is making me move back to North Carolina. I don’t want to go. This is where my friends are. I guess I’m probably old enough to tell her no and that I’m staying here, but I won’t do that. Besides, when William comes I certainly can’t be here. I couldn’t bear to look at his face or see his disappointment in me.

I have betrayed everyone I love and don’t know how to live with the guilt of that. I can’t write any more right now.

Sara

Adrienne pressed her hands against her head. Sara had rambled on for a couple of pages about how she’d betrayed everyone and hated herself for it. The last entry was equally chilling, though it seemed to give the young girl some thin thread of relief.

Dear Diary,

We are leaving today and I am putting these words into my hiding place in the closet. I went and talked to Pastor Luke yesterday. I’m not going to dwell on what I’ve done anymore. I’m going to close this diary, put it away, and leave town with Momma. I guess I’m all she has now.

I miss Gracie. No matter how she treated William, I still love her. I wish she could come back. William is coming home from the war in the next few days. He’ll be here, but we’ll be gone. It’s better. It’s best that I never see him again.

Sara Chandler

Disappointed, Adrienne walked the inside perimeter of the house, shutting off lights and readying for bed. She changed into a T-shirt and sweats—careful not to pull the bandage from her heel. Her head nuzzled into the pillow, but she knew there would be no restful sleep for her tonight. She tossed and turned, haunted by an inconclusive confession from a girl who couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen. Sara was hiding something.

And Adrienne couldn’t ignore the strong tug to find out what.

Leo smiled when Adrienne entered the diner, his pot of coffee and a clean cup—albeit stained on the rim—dangling on his crooked finger. He stopped at the table, wiggled those sparse but unruly brows, and poured the cup without asking.

She questioned him with a look.

“Real man’s cup of coffee.” The cup clinked against the Formica countertop.

“Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I’m not a man at all.” Adrienne was growing ever more comfortable with her circle of eighty-year-old friends. And though that fact might alarm most twenty-somethings, she rather liked it.

Leo urged her onward with the dip of his chin and a wink of his eye. “If you’ve come to pump me for more information, you’re gonna have to drink.”

“Maybe I just came for the best breakfast in town.” She sat back in the booth and crossed her arms over her chest. A couple with three noisy kids, covered with sand from the knees down, passed her table and chose a corner booth.

Leo scrubbed at a weathered cheek. “Nah, I know about you city slickers. Y’all think yogurt and fruit is a proper breakfast. Too busy for a real meal, grabbing a bagel and some awful thing you like to call a
shmear
.”

Adrienne laughed.

He threw his hands up. “What self-respecting bread product has a hole through the middle of it?”

“What about donuts?” Leo seemed a bit . . . younger today. Almost as if he wanted to see her again. The thought made her smile inwardly. Maybe he just enjoyed the banter. She could hold her own with most quick-witted people.
She
certainly enjoyed it. Especially now that she didn’t have to wonder what Eric thought of her conversations. It felt free. She could joke, tease, chit-chat, even flirt without ever having to wonder if she’d be admonished for it later. Life was good.

“I said
self-respecting
bread product.”

Adrienne crossed her legs. “Okay, you got me. I’m here for information. What can you tell me about Sara?”

Leo raised his brows again and stared at the coffee mug but didn’t say a word.

Adrienne followed his gaze to the thick liquid in front of her. Was this really the price for a little history? She mustered her strength and lifted the death-brew to her mouth slowly. After one last plea with her eyes—and Leo only rocking back on his heels—she tipped the mug the way one might tip a glass laced with poison.

Leo smirked.

She was quickly invaded by two sensations. First, there was the stinging of heavily acidic fluid sitting on her tongue. Then the pungent aftertaste that remained after swallowing. “Mmm,” she forced out, unconvincingly. Her eyes watered.