The Sound of Glass by Karen White Page A

one for me, too, when I was a little girl. It would keep me awake, so he put it in the front yard, where I could hear it when I went to the school bus in the morning. He traveled a lot and I used to say it was his way of saying good morning even when he wasn’t there.”
    Loralee put her hand on Owen’s shoulder and squeezed, trying to show Merritt that they were a package deal. “I promise we won’t be any trouble. And I’ll be happy to put clean sheets on beds, or I could sleep on a couch—whatever is easiest for you.” Her mama would be rolling over in her grave at her lack of manners for inviting themselves to move in with this stranger, even if she was Owen’s blood relative.
    Mr. Williams cleared his throat. “I really don’t think the house is ready to be moved into right now, and there is plenty of room at my home—”
    “You can stay here,” Merritt interrupted, dropping Owen’s picture in the seat of the chair next to her before standing. Directing her words to Loralee, she added, “I suppose you can stay for a couple of days. I just need to find some clean sheets for the beds and a few cleaning supplies.”
    Loralee felt Mr. Williams looking at her with expectation, but she knew her offer of help wouldn’t be welcomed. Taking care of the details was probably how Merritt took back control, and Loralee wondered whether every girl who lost her mother did the same thing when life got muddier than a puddle. At least it had been that way for her.
    She was about to mention that they might be staying longer than a few days, perhaps leaving out the details that she’d sold their house in Georgia along with all the furniture and had no place else to stay, when Mr. Williams pulled out his phone. “Let me call my wife and see if she can round up some supplies, or maybe even call her cleaning lady to see if she can come by. . . .” He stopped, his flip phone held in midair, and watched as a recent-model black Explorer pulled up at the curb.
    The lawyer replaced his phone in his pocket and began quickly walking down the path toward the visitor with a worried look creasing his forehead.
    Just as he reached the truck, the driver stepped out and stoodfacing the house, watching Mr. Williams approach. “Hello, Sidney,” the man said, and Loralee understood for the first time what her mama had meant when she’d described a man as a tall drink of cool water.
    He was young, early thirties, with light brown hair and tanned skin, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. He was lean, but not thin, with broad shoulders and legs that filled out his khaki pants just right.
    “I’m not sure now is a good time,” Mr. Williams said to the visitor. “Why don’t I set up a meeting at my office, and I’ll let you know . . .”
    But the younger man had shifted his focus from Mr. Williams back to the house, where Loralee stood with Owen and Merritt, and had begun walking up the path toward them. When he got closer, Loralee could see that his eyes were golden brown, like the color of Robert’s favorite brandy. She could also see that he wore a smiley-face pin on his breast pocket, a wardrobe choice that seemed out of place with the expression on his face.
    He made a beeline toward Loralee, but was distracted by a small, strangled sound from Merritt. Her face had gone even paler than it had been, and she was holding both of her hands to her face. She looked like a person who was seeing a ghost.
    “Cal?” The one word seemed to suck the rest of her color from her face and the man stopped, his expression turning to one of worry as Merritt dropped back into the porch chair like a bag of rocks.
    Loralee pushed on Owen’s back. “Go find a clean glass and bring Merritt some cool water, sweetie. And hurry.”
    Mr. Williams rushed to Merritt’s side and laid a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “No, Merritt, this is Gibbes. Cal’s brother.”
    Her breath was coming in shallow gasps, and it looked like she might faint.