Words Unspoken (44 page)
“Silvano and I had a date. I left you a note.”
“I saw it.”
She braced herself for the yelling.
“Why did he drive all the way up here on a Friday?”
“He likes me, Dad! I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. You’ve seen the flowers.” Her heart was pounding, and she felt anger throbbing in her temples. This was not the time to confront him about Caleb.
“So where did you go?”
She’d already planned the lie. “He took me to a really nice restaurant in Ringgold. A little Italian place. Fancy.” She looked down at her jeans. “I didn’t know it was so nice. I felt way underdressed. Anyway, I’m bushed. See you in the morning.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek.
In the morning. I’ll talk to him in the morning.
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 7
EARLY MORNING
It was no use. At five a.m., Janelle climbed out of bed. She’d already been awake for nearly an hour. She walked down the hallway, past the bedroom that used to be hers and where Gina was sleeping. The old house wrapped around her with memories. Yawning, she reviewed the last twelve hours in her mind.
Dinner last night had gone well. Polite conversation, nothing controversial. Gina talked about school, and Katy Lynn raved over her visit to Montpellier. It was obvious to Janelle that her parents did not know about Hamilton’s demand for a divorce. Katy Lynn’s excuse for her impromptu visit to France was simply, “I needed to get away.”
Katy Lynn maintained her poised attitude all through the evening. At nine thirty, when Janelle announced she was heading to bed, Katy Lynn echoed the same. The sisters had shared the bedroom usually reserved for the grandkids. Lying across from each other in the single beds, they had whispered into the night … something age and personality had kept them from doing as children in this very house.
Janelle went down the creaky stairs, letting her hand follow the smooth wooden railing, the one she had slid down on her little bottom time and again as a child. She made her way to the back of the house, into her parents’ office where the telephone sat. In her hand she held a little plastic calling card—a gift from dear friends, a new way to make long distance calls inexpensively. She dialed a string of numbers and then waited for the phone to ring.
“Allô?”
She smiled at hearing her husband’s voice. “Brian?”
“Sweetheart, it’s kinda early for you to be up. Can’t sleep?”
“Just jet lag, but it’s not so bad. I made it to four thirty. How are you? How are Sandy and Luke?”
“Fine. We miss you lots, but we’re fine.”
“Just wanted you to know that I got to Mom and Dad’s last night—with Katy Lynn and Gina. So far there haven’t been any major explosions.”
They talked for ten minutes. Before they hung up, Brian said, “I’m praying for you all. Relax. Try to rest. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Janelle flicked on the light and walked around the office. It had a comfortable, crowded feel. One wall held imposing mahogany bookshelves, what her father called the
bibliothèque
. The shelves were laden with ancient leather-bound volumes, paperback novels, thick photo albums, and framed photographs. Many framed photographs. Two sturdy metal filing cabinets stood against another wall. Her father’s old typewriter, a manual Remington, sat on the desk. A stack of bills sat beside it.
She walked over to the shelves and took down a framed picture of her parents’ wedding party. She remembered studying the photo when she was a child, enchanted by the glamour of the occasion. Her father wore a black tux with tails, her mother a white satin bridal gown and veil of pure Belgian lace, her train spreading out magnificently behind her. Eight bridesmaids stood to the left of her mother in shining, off-the-shoulder blue satin gowns, and eight men to the right of her father, in their black tuxes. In front of the bridesmaids was Daddy’s sister, little Tate.
In the photo Tate was no more than seven or eight, a stunningly pretty child. Janelle had always wished she’d gotten to meet Tate. As a child, Janelle made up stories about her beautiful aunt who died too young. Whenever her father spoke of Tate, it was with a mixture of pride and deep grief. She didn’t think he had ever really gotten over losing her.
She’s the reason I started the driving school, sweetie. For Tate. To give others the help she never got.
He had said this to Janelle years ago, but now, as she remembered the words, she felt that all-too-familiar lurch in her stomach, and she wrapped her arms around her abdomen, protectively.
Maybe it’s true that you never get over losing a loved one. Perhaps the rest of my life will be a long, long grieving for Josh.
Her father had always been her hero, a quiet but firm leader, a gentle man of faith with a sharp mind and a love of history and literature. She could not imagine learning anything about him or her mother that would damage that relationship. She examined the photo again.
They were rich! Rich, I tell you.
Yes, obviously the wedding showed a display of wealth. Yes, she had seen this in other pictures. She vaguely remembered stories of the “house up East” and going to visit her grandparents in New York when she was quite young. If parties and alcohol and women were part of it, she would just face it with her father and mother. And she would forgive them for keeping secrets.
She took several of the photo albums off the shelves and settled into her father’s desk chair. She lost track of time as she paged through the familiar old albums of her family’s life a long, long time ago. In every shot of the two sisters together, Katy Lynn looked like a teenage model, and little Janelle like a pesky baby sister.
We were never close. And that hurt. Well, here was a little miracle. Katy Lynn and I slept in the same bedroom last night and whispered secrets and laughed. Not so little. A huge miracle.
When daylight began seeping through the window, Janelle left the office and went down the hall and into the kitchen. The idea had come to her quickly. She’d fix breakfast for everyone, and she knew just what it would be. Her father’s favorite: eggs, bacon, and grits. Grits! She hadn’t had grits in ages. You certainly couldn’t find them in France. The couscous she ate with her Algerian friends was about the closest thing, and the texture was still way off.
Scrounging through the cupboards, Janelle found the familiar blue and white box. She put water on to boil, took the eggs and bacon out of the fridge, and put bread in the toaster.
By eight thirty the house smelled like her childhood. Coffee and eggs and bacon and grits. Toast with real butter and homemade jam. It was good to be home.
________
Someone was knocking on the door at nine o’clock. Lissa hadn’t slept well, and she wished her father would answer it. But the knocking persisted. Then the doorbell rang twice. She groaned, got out of bed, found a robe to pull over her nightshirt, and traipsed downstairs. Her father had left a note on the kitchen counter:
Out early. Be back around noon.
Silvano’s face was peering in the window in the entrance hall.
Lissa’s cheeks flushed, and she ran her hand through her hair and opened the door. “What are you doing here? Are you nuts?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m
matto
. I needed to see you. I want to see you. I’ve got something to say.” He looked intense.
“Silvano, I’m not dressed. You woke me up.”
“I’m sorry. Can I come in?”
“My father isn’t here.”
“All the better!”
She laughed and relaxed a little. The nerve. “Oh, come in. Please don’t tell me that you drove to Atlanta last night and then got up and drove back here this morning.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you—but it’s what I did.”
“You’re nuts.”
“Maybe.” He grinned, looking around the kitchen. “You go and get dressed. I brought my own coffee and machine so that I can make you some Italian espresso.”
He held up a little red bag, and she got a whiff of the rich flavor of real coffee beans.
“You’ll love it. Be ready in ten minutes.”
In spite of feeling slightly irritated, she hurried to shower, wash her face, and throw on a pair of jeans—the nicer ones, the ones that enhanced her figure. She picked a pretty blue turtleneck and a yellow cardigan, a combination that her friend Jill called “flattering.” Why did she feel so nervous?
Coming down the stairs, she breathed in the odor of freshly brewed coffee. “I see you’ve made yourself right at home.”
“Do you mind?” He almost looked apologetic. “And I brought you
un panino
from the little bakery near my house.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible. But it does smell good.”
He motioned for her to sit at the breakfast room table and set a cup of coffee in front of her. “I still can’t get over the view. It’s breathtaking.”
“Yep. It’s pretty nice, isn’t it?”
They stared out the picture window at near-naked trees.
“But enough small talk, Silvano. Why did you drive back up here at the break of dawn?”
“I missed you.” He gave her a puppy-dog look that he didn’t pull off very well.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, it’s true.” He placed a plate of fresh pastries on the table and handed her a fork and napkin. “Eat,” he instructed. “Can’t a guy do a few crazy things for a girl every once in a while?”
She shrugged. “I guess… . Well, are you going to eat?”
“No, no. I already had breakfast back in Atlanta.”
She sipped the coffee and took a bite of the pastry as he hovered beside her.
“You’re invading my space, Silvano. Please, sit down and spit it out. What did you come here for?”
He finally sat down in a chair across from Lissa. Almost urgently he asked, “Have you looked at the manuscript yet?”
“Is that what you’re so concerned about? You could have just called me on the phone, you know. Anyway, I haven’t had a chance. I was bushed last night. I’ll read some today.”
“Good.” He leaned over the table, eyes bright. “Thanks to Miss Green, I’ll be working with bigger accounts in the publishing house really soon. It’s good-bye midlist authors for me. I’ll be negotiating contracts with the likes of Holmeyer, Brack, Fryling, and Weaver, to name a few. The house’s biggest names. I’m moving up.”
Exasperated, Liss asked, “Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Name-dropping. It’s annoying. And I’m not impressed. I have no idea who you are talking about. I’m not in the publishing business. Please don’t tell me you drove all the way back here to tell me about some authors I’ve never heard of.”
Silvano’s face colored slightly. He said nothing.
“Look, I’m not dumb. You didn’t come here just to make me coffee and tell me about your publishing accomplishments. What is it?”
Silvano leaned across the table. “I’ll explain why I’m here, if you promise to hear me out.”
Lissa tried to read his mind. What was this guy after? “Okay, go ahead.”
“Can I ask you a few questions first?”
Resigned, she nibbled on the pastry. “If you must.”
“What do you know about Ev MacAllister?”
“He’s my driving instructor.”
“But what do you
know
about him?”
“What do I need to know, for heaven’s sake? I told you yesterday. He runs a driving school. He’s old. Sixty-five, I think. And he’s spent a good part of his life helping screwed-up teens get their heads back on straight, get over stuff so they can drive again.”
“Where’s he from?”
“I don’t know. Georgia or Tennessee, I guess.”
“Does he have a Southern accent?”
“What?”
“Does he speak with a Southern accent? Like everyone else around here.”
“What in the world does it matter, Silvano? Why are you asking?”
“I think he’s hiding something. Protecting somebody.”
“Protecting somebody from
what
?”
“I have an idea.”
“Well, let me in on the secret, will you?” Her irritation grew. “Look, he’s an old man who teaches kids how to drive. I really don’t think he’s dealing drugs or robbing banks.”
“I’m just concerned for you. I don’t want to see you used by him.”
“What in the world would he want to
use
me for? Silvano, you’ve got a screw loose.”
“Have you ever met his wife?”
“Annie? Sure. She’s great. They’re a great couple who really love each other.”
“Does she have a job?”
“Are you almost done with the interrogation? Yes, she has a job. She handles the business end of the driving school.”
“I think she does something else.”
“Yeah, well, she probably does. For one thing, she fixes dinner. In fact, I’ve eaten at their house twice. And it’s good food. Satisfied?”
“I think she writes books.”
“Oh, you and your books! You know, not everyone is as obsessed with authors and advances and moving up the ladder as you are.”
He took out a photo and gave it to Lissa. “Is this Annie?”
Lissa took the photo and felt a little chill run down her back. “Where’d you get this?”
“Never mind where I got it. Is this Annie?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Although I’ve never seen her dressed up. She’s usually in jeans and a T-shirt.”
