Something About Sophie (17 page)

And
he
was a bit of a romantic poet. Sophie's heart melted.

He went on. “She was wearin' a real pretty yellow sweater with tiny white buttons up the front and a slimish sort of brown skirt—I could tell from across the way that she was gonna have a time getting' up off the blanket she was settin' on—talking' and laughin' and lookin' like God sent an angel to that picnic.” He sighed, as smitten now as he was at twenty-two.

“And was it love at first sight for her, too?”

“Lord, no. Took some other fella's hand getting' up off that blanket. Couldn't stand me. So she said at the time.” He chuckled silently. “Course later, when I thought I'd worn her down by jumpin' through every hoop she set out like a trained dog, and she says yes at last to bein' my wife, she tells me different. Says she fancied me from the start but needed to be sure of me and my intentions—since I was there with her cousin and all. I tell her I'd kill a bear with my bare hands if she asked it of me.” He picked an invisible twig off his lap. “Course, she never asked anything of the like from me. Gave me more than she ever got, I fear.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” He caught the gentle smile on her face and looked abroad self-consciously. It made her heady. She sensed he hadn't talked this much, and particularly on this subject, in a long, long time. He was comfortable with her, trusted her; she was delighted . . . and honored.

“She was special, my Cora. Never had an unkind word for anyone she saw. Couldn't walk by a body in need of help to save her life. She was a good woman.”

“I believe you. She sounds amazing.”

He nodded affirmative and considered his next words. “It ain't for me to question God's ways a doin' things, but when you get to be an old coot like me, you come to see the plan He's had for you since you took your first breath. Course there's them that say we all make our own choices and I ain't sayin' we don't. But it don't matter if you choose to take the high road or the low road; the rough, windy one or the easy way—you always end up where you're meant to be, I think.” He made a brief review of his words and gave a single nod. “That's the way of it, you know. Things happen in life with no rhyme or reason that you can see at the time. Takes time, sometimes your whole life, before you see what good can come of it.”

Instinctively, she knew what he was talking about.
Loss.
The loss of those you love. They had that in common. They shared that pain; those fragile, aching spots in their hearts that will always grieve even though their lives go on.

“I'll have to take your word on that one. I'm not seeing it yet. I miss her.” The sting of tears made her blink.

“You should. Means ya loved her; means she was a good mama to you.”

“She was. She was the best. My dad's terrific, too. I lucked out in the parents department.”

“Good ya know it, too. Too many young people don't know how good they got it till it's gone.”

“Is that . . . was . . . What was your daughter like?”

“A good girl. Happy girl.” He said with no hesitation, as if defending her. Instantly, Sophie knew she'd stumbled into a tender territory. She took no offense and was instantly contrite—she'd intruded. But before she could apologize, he said, “Sweet, she was. Had a smile for everyone she knew, and she never met a stranger. Everyone was her friend. Best and brightest thing that ever happened to me and Cora—named her Lonora after the both of us.”

“That's a pretty name.”

“She was a pretty little girl. Like her mama. Like you.” She let her smile say thank you. His smile was simply a part of his reflective expression. “You see? All part of that plan I was tellin' you about.”

“In what way?”

“Had we known when we married about Cora's weak heart; had we known how much worse havin' a tiny baby would make it, I never would have let it happen. Never. The Lord, He tried to tell us in His mysterious way. Made it good and hard for us to get a child, but we weren't hearing Him. We wanted a family. We prayed and we begged for years until He caved in and gave us what we wanted. . . . But Cora's heart, it failed her. And for so long . . . for so long I didn't understand it. It seemed real cruel of Him to bless us with our sweet baby and then take my Cora away. Real cruel. Hurtful, like I'd asked for too much happiness; so when I got it, I had to pay the consequences.” He barely shook his head. “But He don't work like that, ya see. He don't punish people for being too happy. That's plain crazy. But He knew what was comin'. He knew. And He sent for Cora ahead of me to save her the pain of bein' here when her baby passed and to be on the other side to welcome her when she did.”

Sophie wasn't sure if that was the saddest or the sweetest rationalization she'd ever heard. But having trusted her enough to explain it to her, she decided to trust
him
enough not to question it.

“And Lonora? Why did she have to die to begin with?”

“Choices,” he said simply. “Everybody makes choices—some good, some bad. Some so easy you don't even know you're making 'em; some so hard they rip your heart to pieces. Good people make bad choices. Evil people make choices that hurt innocent people. Innocent people make choices that put them in harm's way. It's always the choices we make that whittle the life we live.”

“And my mother died . . . why?”

He pressed his lips together and tipped his head to the right. “Don't know. And if it ain't plain to you yet, might be it's too soon to tell. But it will be the choices you make because of it that'll decide your life from here on.”

He had the eyes of a tired old man, but the light in them gave away his wisdom and the faith he had in his convictions. So much so, she allowed her brain to examine and feel its way through the events and experiences—the choices and outcomes in her life—and slowly, but surely, she began to see a pattern.

A singular love and fascination of young children—possibly due to the fact that she was adopted—made garnering a lucrative babysitting career in high school practically a no-brainer . . . which then helped her select Child Development for college. And while she preferred small children, making a sustainable living in daycare and Pre-K school wouldn't gel in her predominantly practical mind, so she soon chose Primary and Early Childhood Education as her major.

She elected not to leave Marion because she didn't want to be too far from her parents and friends even though third grade was the only position available at the time. However, she made it clear and well known to everyone who controlled such things that she wanted the first kindergarten position that opened—and when it did, she did.

It was never something she wanted, nor would she say she had a real choice in the matter, but she did take a nine-month leave of absence to be with her mother last year. She blamed those wretched months for an aversion to doctors, hospitals, and funeral homes that was almost palpable. Was it her newly honed compassion for the dying that tipped the scale in favor of hearing Arthur Cubeck's deathbed confession? And her impulse to go sightseeing that caused her to miss it? And everything that had happened since . . . ?

When she glanced at Lonny again she must have looked convinced because he nodded and bowed his lips a bit.

“So everything that's happened to me since the day I was born has led me here, right this second, to the edge of your hospital bed.” His nod was slow. “Why?” He shook his head slower.

“Don't know. Might be nothin', might be somethin'. Time will tell, I suspect.”

He had the look of a satisfied man—as if he'd seen a need and done what he could with it. He laced his fingers together and settled them on his abdomen—
Done talkin' serious,
it said.

Okay. She had plenty to mull over anyway.

So once again she startled a bark-hoot from him when she grinned and said, “Pretty or not, Mr. Lonny Campbell, you're an odd old duck.”

“Ho! There you go! Now you're gettin' it.”

T
he deputy returned from his dinner alone, and Sophie left a few minutes later with renewed confidence that he'd be less distracted as he watched over Lonny.

Though, truth told, now that she'd seen him she suspected the only reason he got hurt in the first place was because he'd been ambushed. He'd have fought off anyone coming directly at him, and he would have won. Weakness didn't fit in his vocabulary.

Then again, what kind of coward would attack an old man from behind? And why?

Her mind drew a blank.

It was so blank, in fact, that she couldn't at first place the soft ping sound from deep in the bowels of her purse. A distinctly dissimilar ping from the ding of an incoming text—she had voicemail.

“Sophie, Elizabeth McCarren calling. It occurred to me a few minutes ago that it might be nice for us to get together alone, before lunch on Saturday with Jesse and Ava. I'd very much enjoy the opportunity to get to know you better. The Crabapple Café isn't far from the hospital and it doesn't close until nine o'clock. I have a couple of errands this evening, but I should be finished between seven and seven-thirty if you'd like to meet me there. I have a bit of a sweet tooth, so perhaps we can share a dessert. If you haven't arrived by then, I'll simply get something to go and see you on Saturday. Um. Yes. Goodbye.”

She groaned in dread, passing through the visitors exit to the parking lot.

Alone with
the
fish in the pond, the spoon in the soup pot—the one who kept things stirred up—with no backup, no protectors. She grimaced.

Would her date with Drew, which she deliberately neglected to mention earlier, be a good enough excuse not to go? She twisted to look up at the second-floor windows of the hospital, wondering if a quick call to him would be infantile—or worse, offensive. She was his mother after all.

At her car she leaned back on the door and raised her phone.

Crabapple Café with your mother. Come soon.

About to push send, she changed her mind, went back to erase the second period, and inserted three exclamation marks.

She put her cell back, fished out her keys, and popped the lock with the remote.

The rapid movement in her peripheral vision sent shock and terror to every cell in her body full blast. She panicked. Her hands shook. The keys fell to the ground. Her first thought was to try and beat the odds, go for the keys and the safety of her car. But she wasn't
that girl
. In the movies, the only times
that girl
made it away safely after picking up her keys was if the bad guy was still searching for her elsewhere . . . or momentarily unconscious . . . or superficially wounded— Sophie screamed, bolted for the front door of the hospital.

She didn't get far.

The strong hand that locked on her left upper arm pulled her back against a solid wall of chest as another hand covered her mouth.

She fought.

“Jesus! Shut up. You're going to get me arrested.” She tried to shriek that that was the general idea but could barely breathe, so instead she stuck out her tongue and slathered it over the palm of his hand. “What the—” In disgust he tore his hand away. She screamed. He was forced to stifle her once again. “For crissake, will you stop? It's me, Billy. I'm not going to hurt you.” As she began to relax, he slowly started to release her. “Unless you lick me again.” He swiped his palm across his jeans. “Gawd.”

Once free, she turned on him, smacking his chest with both hands. “Damn it, Billy. You scared the shit out of me!” She smacked him once more.

“Again! What's the matter with you?” This time she hit him with only one hand.

Her heart was still thrashing about in her chest and her joints were going soft with relief. “Why didn't you call out? Identify yourself.”

“I did!”

“Sooner! Before you start rushing toward me. People are dying around here. If I had a gun, I would have killed you first and looked to see who it was afterward.” She hesitated. “Even then I wouldn't have been able to tell because I'd have shot you in the face because those Kevlar vests are so easy to get and you never know who's wearing—”

“I found something.”

“Oh.” She took an involuntary step back, like he might burst into flames. At once it was as if she stood in the center of a cyclone that was sucking time from its very beginning into a pinpoint of darkness. This moment would change the entire world as she knew it, her whole life. There would be answers to her questions that could never be retracted, that she could never put back in the box. “Oh God.”

She stooped to pick up her keys and turned back to her car. She wasn't sure if she should or how long she could ignore him, but she needed more time. She felt caught up in the whirlwind, off balance, on the verge of vomiting.

And Elizabeth was waiting for her.

Billy circled behind her to stand before her again. “By accident. It was like I was meant to find it. No one in town could remember anything from around that time—1985 or '86. That's almost thirty years ago. I tried birth records. Do you know how many females were born in Virginia in that time frame? In this county alone? Or in Charlottesville? Which is in Albemarle County? Or for that matter, any one of ninety-three other counties?”

Sophie checked the lock through her car window to make sure the tab was up, unlocked. She needed to be ready. Ready to run. Just . . . ready, because she wasn't ready to hear what he had to say next.

“But then I realized I was approaching it all wrong. See, you weren't just some normal average statistic. There was something different about your birth, something surrounding it was hinky, something Arthur Cubeck felt guilty about. Guilty enough to leave you his family farm, even though you weren't family. Pretty damned guilty, if you ask me. So I start thinking of all sorts of different things like: he hit a pregnant woman with his car and ran off . . . or maybe she had her newborn baby in a stroller . . . or he was a drunk driver who killed everyone in your family but you—”