The Man She Once Knew Read Free Page A

finished in that familiar spidery handwriting. She felt an urge to give way to grief she hadn’t expected to feel for an old lady she hadn’t seen since she left Oak Hollow.
    Darkness encroached in this place of haunted memories, chipping away at Callie’s carefully built defenses.
    She leaped up so suddenly she stumbled. Quickly sherighted herself and charged through the house, flipping on the lights in every room.
    Hoping to chase away the ghosts that still lurked.
     
    O N HIS WAY TO WORK in his mother’s ancient sedan, David took a detour. How many nights had he driven past the little house after Callie had left.
    He turned the corner and saw light blazing from all the windows in a profligate display Miss Margaret would never have indulged—
    No. She could not be staying.
    Go away, Callie. He’d seen at the chapel that she hadn’t known about him, but she would by now. Someone, probably lots of someones, would eagerly spill all the gruesome details to her.
    He’d borne a lot, would have to bear more until his mother was gone and he was free at last. But seeing Callie, having her look at him the way everyone else did—
    That, after all he’d survived, might finally break him.
    Please, Callie. Go away and let me be.

CHAPTER THREE

    M ORNING’S LIGHT BANISHED the night’s foolishness. Callie went about her preparations to leave, careful not to focus on any more details of this place in which she’d spent seven life-altering months. Other than the severely cut black suit she’d worn to the funeral, she had only the slacks and blouse she’d traveled in. Last night she’d washed out her lingerie and spread it out to dry on a towel bar while hanging up her suit in the closet of the room that was once hers.
    She’d had no sleepwear either, and bare skin in Miss Margaret’s house felt like a serious breach of manners. She couldn’t bring herself to don anything as personal as one of the worn, soft nightgowns bearing the scent that was uniquely Miss Margaret’s, however. Callie had compromised on a light robe and had dropped off to sleep early, surprising herself.
    Now she combed through the cabinets looking for coffee she knew she wouldn’t find. With a pang for the giant red-eye coffee—strong regular coffee spiked with espresso—she normally grabbed on her way to work in Philly, Callie had to settle for Miss Margaret’s belovedEarl Grey. No tea bags were tolerated in this house, so Callie found herself preparing tea Miss Margaret’s way. There was something surprisingly soothing about engaging in the ritual she’d seen performed so often.
    Miss Margaret didn’t hold with mugs; a proper china cup was a must. When Callie opened the cabinet door, still painted cream and hinged with the hammered copper dating from the fifties, she spied the familiar china with its moss rose pattern, and for a second, Miss Margaret was all too real again. Callie ignored the tug, poured herself a cup, then carried it outside.
    How many mornings had she awakened to find Miss Margaret in her garden wearing the old-fashioned sunbonnet made by Miss Margaret’s mother from flour sacks? How many conversations had they conducted there, the older woman’s hands never idle while Callie fumbled to identify vegetable from weed?
    She shook her head in amazement that at her age, her great-aunt had still planted, still managed to weed and water. Gardening is life , she’d say to Callie. You learn everything you really need to know about the world right here.
    Who would wind up with this place? Who would care for it, love it and baby it as Miss Margaret had?
    Callie bent to pluck one weed from the row of—Her brow furrowed. What were these plants? She rose abruptly. What did any of it matter? She would be gone this afternoon at the latest.
    Oh, crap. Her stilettos were getting wet in the dew. Wouldn’t her coworkers howl if they could see herbeloved Manolos damp—wait. Was that dirt on the toes? She quickened her stride, lifting her