Chapter Twenty-Eight

Angela

Logan is standing next to me. He’s talking, but I can’t hear a word of it because my pulse is thundering in my ears. My stomach twists into knots and I want to run back to the car.

“Angela?” I finally hear. “Are you okay? Come on, you can do this,” Logan says. He grabs both of my hands and squeezes them.

I shake my head. “Nope. No I can’t. I can’t tell her. Why don’t you tell her? Or your dad? I mean, that would make sense, right?” I plead.

Logan frowns. “Sorry. Not this time.”

He’s right. I know he’s right. But my brain cannot comprehend walking into this house and confessing to my mother all the things I’ve kept secret for so long.

“Okay,” I say. I take a deep breath and blow it out. Logan kisses my lips softly, three times, releases my hands, and gives me a smile. Suddenly, I feel like I could take on the world.

Knocking as I open the door, I call for her. “Momma? I’m here. Logan, too,” I add.

“In the kitchen,” she says.

I find her with a bowl cradled in her left hand while she stirs with her right. Looks like her famous chocolate cake batter. The familiar sight settles my pulse a bit. She dips her finger in the batter and slides it into her mouth.

“Perfect,” she says with a grin. “Just let me get this in the oven. You two have a seat.”

Logan nods toward the table and we both take a seat. My mom has already set out two glasses with ice and a pitcher of sweet tea on the table. I fill Logan’s glass, but my hands shake so badly that I spill some onto the table. His fingers cover mine as he takes the pitcher from me and pours my glass.

“Trying to take my job?” I ask.

“You’re not on duty,” he says with a smirk.

The oven door slams closed. “Now,” Momma says. “I hope you two are hungry.”

“Momma.” I motion her over. “Before we eat, can I just talk to you first?”

Her eyebrows pull down low over tired eyes. “Of course.” She sits across the table from Logan and me, looking back and forth between us. “What’s this about?”

I inhale slowly through my nose and blow it out between my lips. Logan sits quietly, his knee barely touching mine. It’s just enough to ground me and let me know he’s there.

“This is going to be hard to say,” I tell her. “And probably hard to hear. But I need to say it and you need to hear it. I love you and you deserve to know everything.”

So, there, at the table where I shared so many meals with my mom and dad, where we played board games and I cried over algebra homework, I tell my mother about Roland. She remains quiet the whole time as tears spill from my eyes again. I wait for some kind of reaction, but she sits very still and does nothing but listen.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry, Momma.”

She stands and hurries around the table, pulling me into her arms. “Oh, sweetheart. I knew about Roland.”

I push back and look at her. “You knew?”

Momma’s hands slide to my cheeks and she wipes them dry with her apron. “Your father and I were married for twenty years. We did not keep secrets. He told me the same day you went to him.” She sits down in the chair next to me now. “I always assumed that Roland was the other person present during your father’s death, but I didn’t say anything, either.”

“Why not?” I say. “You could have told the sheriff what you suspected.”

“Because I didn’t want you involved. Your father was already gone and you were all I had left. I couldn’t bear to have you involved in that investigation. You were just a child, my child.”

“All this time, I kept this secret, and you knew. All this time I thought I was responsible for…this,” I say waving my hand around. “For you and how you are now.” I drop my face into my hands.

Logan’s hand slides across my back and I feel like I can breathe a little easier.

“Sweetheart,” she says.

I lift my face to look at her.

“You’ve taken so much on yourself and I hate that you’ve had to deal with that all alone for so long.” She takes a deep breath and exhales. “And I hate the extra burdens I have put on you since your father’s death.” Her eyes bounce from Logan, back to me. “Angela…I don’t want to be like this.”

I reach for her and we hold onto each other like it’s the only thing keeping us alive. And maybe, for the past four years, it has been. Tears flood my eyes again as I think about the courage it took to admit what she did. Momma sits back in her chair and wipes her own face clean now.

“Logan has convinced me to start seeing a therapist. Would you like to come with me?” I ask her.

She doesn’t respond.

“Maybe we can find someone who will come here, to the house, and see how it goes?”

“No,” she says. “I will go. I should go. I’ve got to stop pretending that this is normal. I’ve got to be stronger, for you, for myself. I’ve got to make the leap.”

“So you’ll come with me?” I ask, a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth.

She reaches over and grasps one of my hands. “I will.”

…

A nice-size crowd fills the studio in the art building at Franklin University. There’s a table set up with a few small bites, some champagne, and light music pumping through the speakers. Every wall holds canvases or metal sculptures, every platform displays another work of art from the students in my class. Professor Truman flits around the room, every now and then stopping to discuss a piece with its admirers. He is alive and thriving in this room. Pride beams out of him with every conversation.

I linger near my artwork. I don’t stand close enough to hear what people are saying about it, because art is supposed to inspire everyone in a unique way. What it means to me is just a drop in the bucket of what it means to the jaded teenager, the widowed man, or the pregnant woman. While I love when people see my perspective through my work, I love it more when they take away something of their own. As long as art makes you feel something, it is worth something.

I sip a flute of champagne in a new red dress I bought just for this event.

“What on earth is that thing?” Audrey asks, pointing to a painted piece of a woman’s face made of company logos that seems to melt off of the canvas.

“It’s protest art, the same as mine,” I say. “And stop pointing.”

She laughs. “Yes, but yours is actually good.”

“Audrey,” I groan.

“Sorry I’m late,” Logan says, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks for coming,” I say.

“Where is it?” Logan asks.

Audrey nods her head to the left in a very exaggerated manner and Logan follows her gesturing to find my canvas.

I give her an odd look.

“What?” she asks. “I’m not allowed to point.”

I grin and walk with Logan to stand in front of my painting. The light above it shines down, highlighting the depth and texture of the paint. We stand there for a few minutes while I let Logan take it all in. I wouldn’t let him see it when I finished the project at home, so this is his first viewing.

“Wow,” he finally says. “It’s amazing. You’re so talented I want to whisk you off to New York or Paris so that the world can see what you can do.”

I laugh and plant a kiss on his lips, leaning my forehead against his. “Feel free to whisk me away anytime you please.”

“Hi.”

I turn to find Myra standing behind us. She’s wearing a blue dress and black strappy heels with her hair pinned up. I’ve never seen her in anything other than a T-shirt or church clothes, so I barely recognize her.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Logan says. “I invited her.”

“Not at all,” I answer. “Hi. Come on in here. So, this is my piece,” I say, waving a hand across it. “I’ll leave you two to ponder my greatness while I grab another glass of champagne.”

Myra chuckles and steps up next to Logan. From across the room, I sip my champagne and watch as they exchange a few words. They silently stare at my work for a bit longer before Myra gives him a hug. I make my way back over.

“Well, I just wanted to stop by,” she says. “I have a date tonight. Thanks for inviting me,” Myra says to Logan. “And thank you for showing your passion for something so important,” she says to me. “You’re both really special people.”

Myra gives a little wave and disappears into the crowd. It’s then that I see her, my mother, standing a few feet away. She looks a little nervous but wears a smile and her favorite purple dress. Without thinking, I shove my champagne into Audrey’s hand and hurry over.

“Momma?” I say.

She pulls me in for a tight hug. Before I know it, I am crying again, and I can’t believe how much seeing her here affects me. As much as I tried to shield her and protect her, as fragile as I thought she was, she had to prove me wrong. And I’m so glad that she did.

“You’re here,” I say. “You’re really here.”

She nods. “I made the leap.”

“Are you okay?” I ask, looking her over.

“You know what? I am. I truly am.” She says with a prideful smile. “I can’t believe I was so afraid for so long. Your daddy would have been ashamed of me. I’m sorry I put so much on you, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay, Momma. Everything is going to be okay. Now come and see my work.”

I guide her to where Logan and Audrey are staring, just as amazed as I am.

“You,” she says to Logan. She takes one of his hands in both of hers. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Of course,” he says with a nod. Logan wraps his hands around my waist and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “I’m glad you decided to come.”

I show my mother my painting and she gushes over how proud she is and how talented I am and how I got that from my father. I see Professor Truman heading our way.

“Okay, act natural, my professor is coming,” I say through tight lips.

“How else would we act?” Logan asks.

I cut my eyes at him and raise one eyebrow.

“Miss Lavelle,” the professor says, greeting me with a handshake. “I have to say that your piece is thought provoking, inspiring, everything it should be. I can tell you are passionate about the subject, and that’s what I wanted to pull from you—passion.”

“Thank you, Professor. This is my boyfriend, Logan Sawyer,” I say, motioning to the strangely mute man at my side.

“Yes,” Professor Truman says, looking at Logan over his glasses. “Logan Sawyer. The sheriff’s kid, is that right?”

“Yes, sir,” Logan answers, shaking the professor’s hand.

“This is my friend Audrey. And this is my mom. Do you guys already know each other?”

“Jean,” Professor Truman says with affection, turning to embrace her. She smiles at his warm hug. “It’s so good to see you again. It’s been far too long.”

“Indeed,” she says. There is a moment of silence between them, maybe a mutual understanding of love lost and friendships rekindled.

“Can I show you around?” he asks, offering his elbow.

My mother blushes and I want to squeal. “Of course,” she answers.

“I promise to return her in a timely manner,” he says to me.

With that, they are gone, mingling through the room like the best of friends. It’s amazing how quickly life can change, how everything you thought was true isn’t, and everything you take for granted becomes abundantly valuable. Though Roland and Smith changed our lives, they also put us on this path to a new and different kind of happiness.

Audrey gets upset because they have run out of champagne. She gets her revenge by stuffing seven white chocolate macadamia nut cookies into her purse. “You’ve got real talent, kid,” she says, shoving half a cookie in her mouth. “But we all knew that already. Next, we’ll let the world know it.”

“Right,” I say. “First, Kansas, then, the world.”

“That’s right,” Audrey says, slapping me on the shoulder. “Love you, Al. Gotta go.”

“Where are you off to?”

“I got me a partner in crime for the night. Millie and I are about to hit every bar in Franklin. Cougars on the prowl, baby.”

Audrey gives me a wink and heads for the door. Logan and I just shrug and set off to find my mother. When we do, she is completely enamored with Professor Truman. It’s so surreal standing in this space while she makes conversation and smiles. This is a brand new world and a brand new start at life.

When I’ve had enough of the art show and decide to leave, she says she’s not ready to go yet. I tell her to be home by midnight. She actually giggles.

We step outside and I take in a big lungful of Midwest air. We’re on the cusp of summer and fall and it has a certain feel, a familiar taste on my tongue. Millie’s bright blue ’67 Mustang convertible pulls up in front of us, music blaring.

“I thought you left ten minutes ago,” I say.

Millie turns down the music.

“I had to wait on her,” Audrey says, jabbing a thumb in Millie’s direction. “She was trying to hit on this kid in your class.”

“Almost had him, too,” Millie says with a frown.

Logan leans over, taking a look into the car, noticing the half-empty wine bottle between Audrey’s thighs.

“Is that an open container of alcohol in the vehicle?” Logan asks, pointing between her legs.

She tips the bottle up, drains the entire thing, and drops it on the floorboard of Millie’s car.

“No, sir.”

He chuckles and slaps the door of the car. “Good. Get out of here.” Millie honks as they drive off.