She consciously eased off the accelerator. She didn’t need to get a ticket on top of everything else. But she didn’t stop scolding herself.
“This is why, since Jefferson Middle School, you’ve kept a strict nonintervention policy with regard to your students. You learned the hard way to let the Dianas of the world provide their shoulders to cry on while you just did your job and concentrated on your own problems.” She grimaced. “Of which there are enough, I might remind you.”
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and tried to think of anything but the past fifteen minutes with Mike Langston. No use. “What is going on with that family, anyway?” she said. “Did Carrie’s mother die? Did she leave them? Is she still in their lives but only on a temporary basis?” Brenna was familiar with divorcing parents who used their children as pawns in a power struggle. She hoped that wasn’t the case with the Langstons.
Truly that scenario didn’t seem likely. Mike had said on Friday that he wasn’t married. And Mike and Carrie had recently moved to Mount Union and definitely seemed to be struggling to adjust to each other and their new home. And another thing...why would Mike choose a place so far out of town to live in? Was he hiding something? Was he purposely trying to keep his daughter out of the mainstream? She was just a kid. She needed contacts, friends.
“That’s easy enough to figure out,” Brenna said. “Diana knows the history of every person and building in this town. She’ll know about property by the old mill.”
An image of Mike’s face appeared in the back of Brenna’s mind and provided some details of his character. Strong lines curved around his mouth and eyes. Eyes like his had usually seen life at its most basic levels and experienced tragedy. And Mike’s was an obstinate face. Ruddy from weather and wind and so serious that the man almost appeared as if he was afraid to laugh. His features weren’t classically handsome, but Diana was right. He was interesting in a bold, daring way that made a person want to delve deeper, to learn more.
Brenna nodded to herself. Strange. A tall, fit man like Mike afraid to laugh. Why? Well, maybe because in her dealings with him, she’d given him precious little to smile about.
“Why should you care so much?” she asked aloud. A few minutes ago she’d been so angry she’d walked out on him. Now she was wondering if she might be the one who could crack that granite exterior and get to the man underneath. For the sake of his daughter, of course. “But, girl, you have enough to deal with without having these two—”
Brenna’s cell phone vibrated on the seat beside her. She glanced down. Great. Speaking of dealing... She pushed the button to her car speaker. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”
“Hello, darlin’. I was just thinking about you.”
Her mother’s thick Southern drawl seemed to permeate the air-conditioned cool of Brenna’s car like warm maple syrup. Brenna took in a deep breath. She wasn’t particularly fond of maple syrup.
“How are you, sweetie?” Alma Sullivan asked.
“I’m fine, Mom.” Brenna’s pat response. She never answered any other way. “Is everything all right at home?” She knew it wouldn’t be.
“Your daddy and I are doing good, honey. My ironing jobs have dwindled down some, but that’s okay. I don’t much like ironing in the heat of the summer anyway.”
“Mom, don’t you have the air conditioner on in the trailer?”
“Not right now. It’s not too bad. Tonight if your dad can’t sleep, I’ll turn it on.”
Brenna wanted to ask what her parents were doing with the two hundred dollars a month she sent them in the summers so they could run the AC in their single-wide trailer, but she refrained. Her mother would just list the other necessities the money had gone toward, and Brenna would only feel worse than she did now.
She clutched the steering wheel until her knuckles went white and said, “So any news?”
“Well, yes. There’s good news.”
Brenna held her breath.
“Your dad got a few hours of work with that fella who moved into the unit next door. The man got hired to paint the inside of the Waffle House and he asked your father to help him. It was a godsend, really.”
“Daddy’s back wasn’t hurting him?” Brenna asked.
“He took some of that twelve-hour pain medication and did okay.”
Her mother paused, and Brenna waited for what was to come.
“But it’s not all rosy here, Brenna May,” Alma said, “and that’s partly why I called today.”
She tried to keep the edge of impatience out of her voice. “What’s wrong?”
“The brakes on the truck went out. Wayne at the shop wants almost five hundred to fix them. We gotta do it, of course.” Her mother emitted a nervous chuckle. “Can’t be driving around with no brakes.”
“Do you think it’s a fair price?” Brenna asked. Mike’s face popped into her mind again. She almost said, “I know a good mechanic.”
“Oh, yeah. Wayne would never cheat us.”
Cut to the chase. “How much do you need?”
“We’ll pay you back. You know that.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“We’ve got two hundred and forty left over from the paint job, so...”
Brenna did the math. “You need two hundred sixty.” She had that much in her checking account. At least she wouldn’t have to raid her savings. “I’ll send a check out tomorrow. You’ll get it Wednesday. Tell Wayne to go ahead and fix the car.”
“I’d use your dad’s Social Security check, but we need...”
“It’s okay, Mom.”
She disconnected as soon as possible and continued toward home. As she approached her comfortable cottage, she breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness she wasn’t still living in that nine-by-nine trailer bedroom with its leak-stained ceilings, built-in drawers and tiny closet with a plastic shower curtain for a door. She’d grown up in that room. She’d worked her way through college living in that room.
She got out of her car, walked to the front porch that greeted her with planters of geraniums and pansies and delicate wicker furniture. When she opened her door, a blast of cool air welcomed her as she stepped inside.
She’d escaped that room in that single-wide trailer. She’d never told anyone about that room, not even Diana. And she’d never go back.
* * *
DIANA FROWNED DOWN at her plate of watery spaghetti. “There’s just something not quite right about cafeteria pasta,” she said, spreading her napkin on her lap.
Brenna smiled at her and added dressing to her salad. “I have to ask you something, Di.”
“Shoot.”
“What do you know about a house beyond the gristmill?”
Diana stopped twirling spaghetti around her fork and looked up at Brenna. “Did you say beyond the mill?”
“Yes.”
Diana thought a moment. “There’s only one house out there that I know of. A cabin, really. Not very fancy. In fact, almost primitive. It hasn’t been occupied in a long time.”
Bingo. “Who owns it?”
“Let me think. The last person to stay out there was a part-time resident, an older lady who used to come for the winters. But she hasn’t been there in, I don’t know, maybe ten years.”
“And the cabin belonged to her?”
“I