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Her father's house was overrun with well-intentioned people. They chatted in small clumps. Some helped themselves to the smorgasbord of food laid out in the kitchen. Each one offered Scottlyn a word of support or shared a story about her father. The attention was stifling.
Scottlyn moved from room to room in the house she'd grown up in. Other than a brief visit two days ago to retrieve burial clothes for her father, she hadn't been inside in more than three years. It belongs to me now. The reality hadn't sunk in yet. So she wandered and took comfort in the familiarity. But the uneasiness that had filled her a few days ago returned, etching itself deeper in her mind with every breath. A funeral today, her father's estate to deal with, wedding plans to finish. Jesus, I need You to hold me up.
She paused in the doorway of her old room. Not a scrap of her presence remained. Daddy had emptied her out of this room like he'd emptied her out of his heart. She imagined him in there, angrily boxing up her things, removing any trace that he'd ever had a daughter. Daddy, will I ever know why?
Bitterness squeezed her heart in a relentless grip. Abortion or adoption had been the only options he'd accept after the rape that left her pregnant. Scottlyn refused both. For that grand disobedience, he'd ordered her out of the house and out of his life. She'd walked out with a bag of clothes, her school books, an iPod, and the combs her mother had worn in her hair on her wedding day.
She closed her eyes and leaned against the doorjamb. God, I know I made the right choice where Mercie is concerned. You've been there for me every step of the way. I always hoped... The prayer went on hold when her fingers encountered a series of indentions carved into the wood she rested against. Scottlyn bent to examine them. "Measurements." Someone had painted over the numbers, but the grooves were still there. She stooped and walked her fingers up the marks, fifteen in all. A tradition carried out on each birthday from when she first learned to stand on her own until she reached her full growth. Daddy said Mom started it, but he always made such a big deal out of it. Pocketknife, ruler, and a marker. Most parents just made a mark of some sort. Daddy carved me into the wood of the house. Scottlyn's lips inched up in a smile. Maybe he did love me, just a little.
Her smile bloomed in force when Grant's arms slid around her waist. She leaned against him and breathed deep of the spicy cologne he favored.
"What you got there?" he asked.
"Proof that my father loved me." She turned in his arms and snuggled close. "I've been walking through the house, looking for some remnant of my presence. Something I could hold onto that was just mine and Daddy's."
The arms around her tightened. "Baby, you've got to get past this. The man was a shortsighted idiot who didn't care for anyone but himself—"
"What?" Scottlyn shoved out of his arms and put her hands on her hips.
Grant took a step back. He ran both hands through his hair before meeting Scottlyn's glare. "Scottie, I'm sorry. I just...I mean..." He took a deep breath. "Seeing you so hurt is killing me, OK? I shouldn't have said what I just said. I've been asking God for strength to keep my thoughts to myself, but that one slipped out."
She leaned into his space, her words a whispered hiss. "You just called my father, the father I just buried, an idiot."
He put his hands on her shoulders, ran them down her arms, and brought her fingers to a place over his heart. "I'm the idiot. I have opinions about what happened between you and him, but I should keep them to myself." He raised her hands and brushed her knuckles with a kiss. "Scottie, I love you. That automatically makes anyone who hurts you the bad guy." He squeezed her hands. "Forgive me?"
Scottlyn studied his expression. "I guess I get that. I've been struggling with some of the same feelings." She waved at the marks in the doorjamb. "One minute looking for some clue that I was loved, the next wondering why I should care either way." She freed her hands, placed them on his shoulders, and raised to her tiptoes to place a kiss on his mouth. "So, yes, I forgive you, but I need you to let me work these feelings out for myself."
She leaned against him and rested her forehead on his chest. "I just feel so disjointed."
"How do you mean?"
"Alone. Unanchored. Mom's gone, Daddy's dead...I'm an orphan."
"Scottie..."
"I know how pitiful and extreme that sounds, but I want to be honest with you, so you can understand where I'm coming from." She paused and tried to put her thoughts into words that sounded a little less pathetic. She wanted his support, not his sympathy.
"It's hard to explain. I know you love me, and I know Diana loves me, but it's not the love of a parent. How many adopted kids grow up loved by parents who chose to love them and spend their lives looking for the people who gave them birth? No matter how old we are, no matter how much we're loved, I don't think we ever outgrow the need for that connection. It's an internal part of who we are, at least it is for me."
Scottlyn raised her head. "Mom's been gone for so long, I can't remember what she looked like. She isn't coming back. I accepted that a long time ago. But Daddy? Despite everything that happened, I had this place in my heart that hoped love would win in the end, and he'd want me back in his life. It's going to take me a while to adjust to the fact that I've lost them both."
***
THE ANCIENT CHEVY SPUTTERED to a stop at the curb in front of William's house. She turned off the engine, and the infernal machine rattled and coughed for thirty seconds before it died, filling the air with an acrid stench. Her eyes closed in frustration. A new car moved to number three on her wish list—just beneath get as much of William's money as she could and leave Sabor, Oklahoma, behind for good.
She climbed out of the car, slammed the door, and gave the crowd of surrounding vehicles a dismissive sneer. Seemed like the man was more popular in death than he'd ever been in life. She pulled a compact out of her bag and checked her hair and makeup. Showtime.
The tears she needed came easily enough. So what if they were tears of joyful anticipation? Her ship was about to sail with her at the helm, and that was enough to make any woman weep. From the outside, they would be indistinguishable from sorrow.
As she navigated the walk, she allowed her shoulders to slump, her head to hang. She sidled through the front door, wringing her hands at her waist and twisting a plain gold band on the ring finger of her left hand. She clung to the sides of the room, avoiding the press of strangers. Sabor's upper crust. She scoffed. Nothing but small town losers, using William's death as a chance to strut their best Walmart wardrobes. Jocelyn ignored them all. There were only two people she needed to see, Scottlyn and the lawyer. She figured they would spot her soon enough.
While she waited she appraised her surroundings. Used furniture doesn't bring a lot, but I could get an easy hundred for that sofa and another twenty-five for the chair. Her eyes studied the outdated electronics, and she shook her head in derision. The man was a dinosaur. This was probably the last house in Sabor without a flat screen TV, and the computer equipment on the desk in the corner was just as obsolete.
She meandered through the crowd of mourners. The electronics might be out-of-date, but the house was full of expensive, easily pawned items that made her fingers itch with the desire to examine and pocket. She resisted the temptation. Scottlyn was her primary target today. It was imperative that she win the girl's sympathy. If she could accomplish that—and her story was a good one, if she did say so herself—everything else would fall into place. The days ahead would provide plenty of opportunity for her sticky fingers.
For now, she did her best to blend in, speaking to no one, offering a small grief stricken smile to anyone who caught her eye. She helped herself to a plate of goodies and something to drink. Her eyes lingered over the selection of sodas, tea, and lemonade lined up on the kitchen cabinet, searching for something stronger before settling for iced tea. Who throws a wake with no booze?
All the while, she kept an eye out for Scottlyn or the lawyer. She needed to establish her return in front of witnesses, needed an opportunity to finagle her way into the good graces of Scottlyn and that old family lawyer. They had to be here somewhere.
She moved back to the living room just as a trio of individuals entered from the other end of the house. There they are. She scrutinized her prey from a comfortable distance. She'd only seen Harold Cole one time, and he'd aged badly. His belly hung over his belt, and that ridiculous mustache did nothing to hide the additional lines on his face. Scottlyn, on the other hand, had grown into a beautiful young lady. Jocelyn searched her heart for any feelings of connection and came up empty. I'll need to be careful there. Indifference won't get me what I want.
She put the plate aside, primed her tears, and made her move. She stumbled across the room and threw herself into Harold Cole's arms.
The surprised lawyer sputtered and tried to disentangle himself. "What are you doing?"
"Oh, Harold. How did this happen?"
Harold grabbed her upper arms and held her at arm's length. He stared into her face. She knew the instant he recognized her.
"Jocelyn?"
She nodded.
"You have a lot of nerve showing your face here."
Next to him Scottlyn studied her with a frown. "Jocelyn...?" She tilted her head. "Mom?"