screen.
“Mom?”
Annabelle glanced over her shoulder at Keeley leaning against the doorframe. “Hey, darling.”
“You talking to yourself?”
“No, I’m talking to the person who asked this stupid question for my column.”
“I thought you said there are no stupid questions.”
“This one is.” Annabelle tapped the screen. “Hey, what are you doing home?” She glanced up at the wall clock. “It’s only two.”
“I hate math.”
“What?” Annabelle went to her daughter. “What do you mean? Are you telling me you left school in the middle of the day because you hate math?” Her voice rose.
“Chill, Mom. Geez. It’s not the middle of the day. There was only one class left. And I don’t feel good. I’m going to lie down.”
“Oh, Keeley, did you go to the nurse or check out at the office?”
Keeley rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
“That is not an answer. If you’re really sick, go to bed.”
Keeley held up her hands. “I am.”
Annabelle watched her daughter walk down the hall, drop her backpack in the middle of the foyer and take the stairs two at a time to her bedroom upstairs. She should tell Keeley to come back and pick up her backpack, holler at her for leaving it in the middle of the hall, but Annabelle had only enough energy for the task at hand—the advice column.
The computer blinked and Annabelle sat down to answer the question.
Dear Guilt-ridden and Confused,
This is the stupidest question I have been asked in the nine years I have been writing this column. A time limit as with a gift? What kind of upbringing did you have that you believe there is a time limit on the truth? Of course you should tell your best friend the truth. If you claim to have a best friend, if you are living as if she is your best friend, then you are living a lie. Deceit and betrayal cannot exist between two people who care about each other.
Sincerely,
The Southern Belle
Annabelle clicked send to Mrs. Thurgood and leaned back in her chair. A slow laugh began below her chest and rose until she sat giggling at her computer. There was no way Mrs. Thurgood would let an abrasive and rude column through her “Southern Belle” filter.
Annabelle began to type her real answer.
Dear Guilt-ridden,
This is a complicated question, just as relationships are complicated and multifaceted.
Annabelle leaned back on her office chair, rubbed her fingers on her temples and thought about what to say next. She was staring at the ceiling when the ding of incoming mail made her look back down at another e-mail from Mrs. Thurgood:
Thank you for the quick reply on the column. See next e-mail for article on Knox’s plane. Please let me know if you have any input.
Annabelle took in a sharp breath. Mrs. Thurgood must not have read the advice column—she had sent it straight to print. Yet what really knocked the air out of her lungs was the new attachment that scrolled across her screen:
KNOX MURPHY’S PLANE FOUND
Annabelle slowly read the facts she already knew from the sheriff. But here they were, about to appear in the evening and then morning papers for all of Marsh Cove and South Carolina to see, for Internet readers and the Associated Press to find.
Annabelle dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, Knox. Sweet, sweet Knox, what were you doing?”
The room seemed to spin and Annabelle closed her eyes until footsteps entered the room. “Mom?”
Annabelle lifted her head. “Yes?” Keeley stood before her with a coat in one hand, car keys in her other.
“I’m headed out.”
“No, you’re not.”
Keeley laughed and Annabelle marveled at the unknown child before her. “Yes, I am,” Keeley said.
Annabelle stood, took four steps toward her daughter and grabbed the car keys from her hand. “You cannot skip school and then take the car. What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong with me. But there is definitely something wrong with this family—Dad was running off with
“Mom?”
Annabelle glanced over her shoulder at Keeley leaning against the doorframe. “Hey, darling.”
“You talking to yourself?”
“No, I’m talking to the person who asked this stupid question for my column.”
“I thought you said there are no stupid questions.”
“This one is.” Annabelle tapped the screen. “Hey, what are you doing home?” She glanced up at the wall clock. “It’s only two.”
“I hate math.”
“What?” Annabelle went to her daughter. “What do you mean? Are you telling me you left school in the middle of the day because you hate math?” Her voice rose.
“Chill, Mom. Geez. It’s not the middle of the day. There was only one class left. And I don’t feel good. I’m going to lie down.”
“Oh, Keeley, did you go to the nurse or check out at the office?”
Keeley rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
“That is not an answer. If you’re really sick, go to bed.”
Keeley held up her hands. “I am.”
Annabelle watched her daughter walk down the hall, drop her backpack in the middle of the foyer and take the stairs two at a time to her bedroom upstairs. She should tell Keeley to come back and pick up her backpack, holler at her for leaving it in the middle of the hall, but Annabelle had only enough energy for the task at hand—the advice column.
The computer blinked and Annabelle sat down to answer the question.
Dear Guilt-ridden and Confused,
This is the stupidest question I have been asked in the nine years I have been writing this column. A time limit as with a gift? What kind of upbringing did you have that you believe there is a time limit on the truth? Of course you should tell your best friend the truth. If you claim to have a best friend, if you are living as if she is your best friend, then you are living a lie. Deceit and betrayal cannot exist between two people who care about each other.
Sincerely,
The Southern Belle
Annabelle clicked send to Mrs. Thurgood and leaned back in her chair. A slow laugh began below her chest and rose until she sat giggling at her computer. There was no way Mrs. Thurgood would let an abrasive and rude column through her “Southern Belle” filter.
Annabelle began to type her real answer.
Dear Guilt-ridden,
This is a complicated question, just as relationships are complicated and multifaceted.
Annabelle leaned back on her office chair, rubbed her fingers on her temples and thought about what to say next. She was staring at the ceiling when the ding of incoming mail made her look back down at another e-mail from Mrs. Thurgood:
Thank you for the quick reply on the column. See next e-mail for article on Knox’s plane. Please let me know if you have any input.
Annabelle took in a sharp breath. Mrs. Thurgood must not have read the advice column—she had sent it straight to print. Yet what really knocked the air out of her lungs was the new attachment that scrolled across her screen:
KNOX MURPHY’S PLANE FOUND
Annabelle slowly read the facts she already knew from the sheriff. But here they were, about to appear in the evening and then morning papers for all of Marsh Cove and South Carolina to see, for Internet readers and the Associated Press to find.
Annabelle dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, Knox. Sweet, sweet Knox, what were you doing?”
The room seemed to spin and Annabelle closed her eyes until footsteps entered the room. “Mom?”
Annabelle lifted her head. “Yes?” Keeley stood before her with a coat in one hand, car keys in her other.
“I’m headed out.”
“No, you’re not.”
Keeley laughed and Annabelle marveled at the unknown child before her. “Yes, I am,” Keeley said.
Annabelle stood, took four steps toward her daughter and grabbed the car keys from her hand. “You cannot skip school and then take the car. What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong with me. But there is definitely something wrong with this family—Dad was running off with
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