name?”
“Oh, let me think. Mrs. Beech wrote it down. Ophelia? Octavia? Octavia Fant. That was it. Unusual.”
I thought Amelia was going to faint. She turned a funny color and she braced her hand against the arm of the couch. “You’re sure?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m sure. I gave her your cell phone number, and I told her you were living in Bon Temps.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Amelia croaked. “Ah, I’ll bet supper’s done; let me go check.”
“Didn’t Sookie just look at the food?” He wore the broad tolerant smile a man wears when he thinks women are being silly.
“Oh, sure, but it’s in the end stage,” I said while Amelia shot out of the room as swiftly as I’d just done. “It would be awful if it burned. Amelia worked so hard.”
“Do you know this Ms. Fant?” Cope asked.
“No, I can’t say as I do.”
“Amelia looked almost scared. No one’s trying to hurt my girl, right?”
He was a different man when he said that, and one I could almost like. No matter what else he was, Cope didn’t want anyone hurting his daughter. Anyone except him, that is.
“I don’t think so.” I knew who Octavia Fant was because Amelia’s brain had just told me, but she herself hadn’t spoken it out loud, so it wasn’t a thing I could share. Sometimes the things I hear out loud and the things I hear in my head become really tangled and confused—one of the reasons why I have a reputation for being borderline crazy. “You’re a contractor, Mr. Carmichael?”
“Cope, please. Yes, among other things.”
“I guess your business must be booming right now,” I said.
“If my company was twice as big, we couldn’t keep up with the jobs there are to do,” he said. “But I hated to see New Orleans all torn up.”
Oddly enough, I believed him.
Supper went smoothly enough. If Amelia’s father was disconcerted at eating in the kitchen, he didn’t give a sign of it. Since he was a builder, he noticed that the kitchen portion of the house was new and I had to tell him about the fire, but that could have happened to anyone, right? I left out the part about the arsonist.
Cope seemed to enjoy his food and complimented Amelia, who was mighty pleased. He had another glass of wine with his meal, but no more than that, and he ate moderately, too. He and Amelia talked about friends of the family and some relatives, and I was left alone to think. Believe me, I had a lot of thinking to do.
Hadley’s marriage license and divorce decree had been in her lockbox at her bank when I’d opened it after her death. The box had contained some family things—a few pictures, her mother’s obituary, several pieces of jewelry. There’d also been a lock of fine hair, dark and wispy, with a bit of Scotch tape to keep it together. It had been placed in a little envelope. I’d wondered when I’d noticed how fine the hair was. But there hadn’t been a birth certificate or any other scrap of evidence that Hadley had had a baby.
Up until now, I’d had no clearly defined reason to contact Hadley’s former husband. I hadn’t even known he existed until I’d opened her lockbox. He wasn’t mentioned in her will. I’d never met him. He hadn’t shown up while I was in New Orleans.
Why hadn’t she mentioned the child in her will? Surely any parent would do that. And though she’d named Mr. Cataliades and me as the joint executors, she hadn’t told either of us— well, she hadn’t told me—that she had relinquished her rights to her child, either.
“Sookie, would you pass the butter?” Amelia asked, and I could tell from her tone it wasn’t the first time she’d spoken to me.
“Of course,” I said. “Can I get either of you any more water or another glass of wine?”
They both declined.
After supper, I volunteered to do the dishes. Amelia accepted my offer after a brief pause. She and her father had to have some time alone, even if Amelia didn’t relish the prospect.
I washed and dried and put away the
“Oh, let me think. Mrs. Beech wrote it down. Ophelia? Octavia? Octavia Fant. That was it. Unusual.”
I thought Amelia was going to faint. She turned a funny color and she braced her hand against the arm of the couch. “You’re sure?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m sure. I gave her your cell phone number, and I told her you were living in Bon Temps.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Amelia croaked. “Ah, I’ll bet supper’s done; let me go check.”
“Didn’t Sookie just look at the food?” He wore the broad tolerant smile a man wears when he thinks women are being silly.
“Oh, sure, but it’s in the end stage,” I said while Amelia shot out of the room as swiftly as I’d just done. “It would be awful if it burned. Amelia worked so hard.”
“Do you know this Ms. Fant?” Cope asked.
“No, I can’t say as I do.”
“Amelia looked almost scared. No one’s trying to hurt my girl, right?”
He was a different man when he said that, and one I could almost like. No matter what else he was, Cope didn’t want anyone hurting his daughter. Anyone except him, that is.
“I don’t think so.” I knew who Octavia Fant was because Amelia’s brain had just told me, but she herself hadn’t spoken it out loud, so it wasn’t a thing I could share. Sometimes the things I hear out loud and the things I hear in my head become really tangled and confused—one of the reasons why I have a reputation for being borderline crazy. “You’re a contractor, Mr. Carmichael?”
“Cope, please. Yes, among other things.”
“I guess your business must be booming right now,” I said.
“If my company was twice as big, we couldn’t keep up with the jobs there are to do,” he said. “But I hated to see New Orleans all torn up.”
Oddly enough, I believed him.
Supper went smoothly enough. If Amelia’s father was disconcerted at eating in the kitchen, he didn’t give a sign of it. Since he was a builder, he noticed that the kitchen portion of the house was new and I had to tell him about the fire, but that could have happened to anyone, right? I left out the part about the arsonist.
Cope seemed to enjoy his food and complimented Amelia, who was mighty pleased. He had another glass of wine with his meal, but no more than that, and he ate moderately, too. He and Amelia talked about friends of the family and some relatives, and I was left alone to think. Believe me, I had a lot of thinking to do.
Hadley’s marriage license and divorce decree had been in her lockbox at her bank when I’d opened it after her death. The box had contained some family things—a few pictures, her mother’s obituary, several pieces of jewelry. There’d also been a lock of fine hair, dark and wispy, with a bit of Scotch tape to keep it together. It had been placed in a little envelope. I’d wondered when I’d noticed how fine the hair was. But there hadn’t been a birth certificate or any other scrap of evidence that Hadley had had a baby.
Up until now, I’d had no clearly defined reason to contact Hadley’s former husband. I hadn’t even known he existed until I’d opened her lockbox. He wasn’t mentioned in her will. I’d never met him. He hadn’t shown up while I was in New Orleans.
Why hadn’t she mentioned the child in her will? Surely any parent would do that. And though she’d named Mr. Cataliades and me as the joint executors, she hadn’t told either of us— well, she hadn’t told me—that she had relinquished her rights to her child, either.
“Sookie, would you pass the butter?” Amelia asked, and I could tell from her tone it wasn’t the first time she’d spoken to me.
“Of course,” I said. “Can I get either of you any more water or another glass of wine?”
They both declined.
After supper, I volunteered to do the dishes. Amelia accepted my offer after a brief pause. She and her father had to have some time alone, even if Amelia didn’t relish the prospect.
I washed and dried and put away the
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