lightened his furrowed expression. “So,” he said, “tell me about your trip out with John. How did it go?”
For a minute or two she forgot about her mother, Michael Harley and Bedford’s questions as she talked about her work, content to be discussing the subject she loved best. She told Bedford about her day, or at least the part of her day that would make him smile. She wanted to love him as much as he did her, as much as she had once loved another man.
Yes, there was a time when she’d loved someone else. Of course she’d never told Bedford about him: Christian Marcus, who’d worked with her at the Marine Research Center. When she thought of Christian, sorrow came in a wave of regret. He was the loss she bore because of her inability to tell the truth. He was the debt she paid for keeping secrets.
She had believed Christian would love her despite the things she couldn’t tell him, regardless of the past life she refused to speak about. When he had informed her that he was taking a research job in Alaska, he claimed his heart was broken, but he could not love someone who did not love him in return. No matter how hard Sofie tried to convince him that she cared for him beyond words and without measure, he felt the wall around her heart, and so he left.
Although she was young and her mother told her she could not truly love yet, Sofie had blamed her mother for this great bereavement and didn’t speak to her for a month after Christian moved away. Sofie then vowed never again to feel the hopeless and frantic need she’d often seen in her mother: the reckless desire to make a man love you back when his heart and commitment obviously resided elsewhere.
Sofie reached out and took Bedford’s hand, stroked his palm. “I do love you,” she said, a magic incantation to prevent more loss.
FOUR
ANNABELLE MURPHY
The phone rang in the far end of Annabelle’s house, four times, five times, before the answering machine clicked on. She walked to the kitchen to listen to the messages. Mrs. Thurgood wanted to know why the advice column wasn’t on her desk. It was only two hours before deadline and she refused to print a repeat.
Annabelle put her hands over her ears. Every single phone call over the past four hours had been a reminder of something else she hadn’t done since Wade Gunther had walked up on her veranda: attend the fund-raiser committee meeting for the new women’s room at the church; drop off the bulbs at Ann-Marie’s before the neighborhood gardening club’s planting party; work tomorrow’s shift at the food pantry; and now write her column.
In not one of these calls had anyone inquired about her well-being or provided the only news she wanted to hear: who was with Knox on that plane.
Annabelle stood, stretched and walked to the computer in her small office at the front of the house. The question Mrs. Thurgood wanted Annabelle to answer in the “Southern Belle Says” column would be in her e-mail in-box.
“I can do this.” Annabelle spoke out loud to the empty room. “I’ve been through worse—I will not let this take me down.” She rubbed a hand across her face.
The old computer whirred and hummed, threatening to quit at any minute. Now might be a good time. Her in-box scrolled full. She scanned for the e-mail from the newspaper and clicked on NEW QUESTION.
Dear Southern Belle,
I have a secret I have kept from my best friend for over five years. I can’t hold it in anymore. But I don’t know how to tell her now; it is too late to change what happened or the consequences that have followed. My guilt is eating away at me. Is five years too long to wait to tell the truth? What is the proper etiquette? Is there a time limit like with wedding or baby presents?
Guilt-ridden and Confused in Charleston
“Moron,” Annabelle said to the screen. “A time limit like with wedding presents?” She slammed her hand on the keyboard; random letters and symbols appeared on the
For a minute or two she forgot about her mother, Michael Harley and Bedford’s questions as she talked about her work, content to be discussing the subject she loved best. She told Bedford about her day, or at least the part of her day that would make him smile. She wanted to love him as much as he did her, as much as she had once loved another man.
Yes, there was a time when she’d loved someone else. Of course she’d never told Bedford about him: Christian Marcus, who’d worked with her at the Marine Research Center. When she thought of Christian, sorrow came in a wave of regret. He was the loss she bore because of her inability to tell the truth. He was the debt she paid for keeping secrets.
She had believed Christian would love her despite the things she couldn’t tell him, regardless of the past life she refused to speak about. When he had informed her that he was taking a research job in Alaska, he claimed his heart was broken, but he could not love someone who did not love him in return. No matter how hard Sofie tried to convince him that she cared for him beyond words and without measure, he felt the wall around her heart, and so he left.
Although she was young and her mother told her she could not truly love yet, Sofie had blamed her mother for this great bereavement and didn’t speak to her for a month after Christian moved away. Sofie then vowed never again to feel the hopeless and frantic need she’d often seen in her mother: the reckless desire to make a man love you back when his heart and commitment obviously resided elsewhere.
Sofie reached out and took Bedford’s hand, stroked his palm. “I do love you,” she said, a magic incantation to prevent more loss.
FOUR
ANNABELLE MURPHY
The phone rang in the far end of Annabelle’s house, four times, five times, before the answering machine clicked on. She walked to the kitchen to listen to the messages. Mrs. Thurgood wanted to know why the advice column wasn’t on her desk. It was only two hours before deadline and she refused to print a repeat.
Annabelle put her hands over her ears. Every single phone call over the past four hours had been a reminder of something else she hadn’t done since Wade Gunther had walked up on her veranda: attend the fund-raiser committee meeting for the new women’s room at the church; drop off the bulbs at Ann-Marie’s before the neighborhood gardening club’s planting party; work tomorrow’s shift at the food pantry; and now write her column.
In not one of these calls had anyone inquired about her well-being or provided the only news she wanted to hear: who was with Knox on that plane.
Annabelle stood, stretched and walked to the computer in her small office at the front of the house. The question Mrs. Thurgood wanted Annabelle to answer in the “Southern Belle Says” column would be in her e-mail in-box.
“I can do this.” Annabelle spoke out loud to the empty room. “I’ve been through worse—I will not let this take me down.” She rubbed a hand across her face.
The old computer whirred and hummed, threatening to quit at any minute. Now might be a good time. Her in-box scrolled full. She scanned for the e-mail from the newspaper and clicked on NEW QUESTION.
Dear Southern Belle,
I have a secret I have kept from my best friend for over five years. I can’t hold it in anymore. But I don’t know how to tell her now; it is too late to change what happened or the consequences that have followed. My guilt is eating away at me. Is five years too long to wait to tell the truth? What is the proper etiquette? Is there a time limit like with wedding or baby presents?
Guilt-ridden and Confused in Charleston
“Moron,” Annabelle said to the screen. “A time limit like with wedding presents?” She slammed her hand on the keyboard; random letters and symbols appeared on the
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