A new father was coming in a few weeks to take over the disgraced helm left by Father Mathew, who was awaiting sentencing in a county jail north of New York City. He never did confess to sneaking into Dad’s place and turning on the gas burners, but I’m sure he did it. He could keep that secret if he wanted. We all hid one thing or another in the end.
I walked with Dad, Kel, and the girls to the park where the community cookout was taking place. It was late September and had that perfect tone of so many fall days—warm sun, cool breeze. The kind that was made for the smell of hot charcoal and the last of a cold beer sliding over your tongue with another waiting for you in some ice nearby.
Most everyone from the Loop was there. Mrs. Tross, now in a wheelchair, sat gabbing with Mr. Allen Crane like they were ancient friends. He and I nodded at one another as we passed. It was amazing what a cheesecake and an apology would do.
Mrs. Pell and her husband had brought their smoker down the day before and had been here since sunup, a whole pig turning slowly and issuing a most delicious scent on the breeze. A few dozen other couples and people I only recognized from church were there too.
And Rachel and her boys.
They were at a picnic table at the far end of the park, only a little removed from the rest of the group, but I noticed the polite gap between them and everyone else. It was a visual representation of the feeling within the neighborhood, but I was glad to see a couple of the other young mothers standing with Rachel, trying to include her even though she no longer lived on the Loop.
She’d sold the house up the street a few weeks after reappearing. Too many memories, she told me at one of our few meetings up on the hiking trail. It was really the only place we felt safe being in one another’s company, neither of us wanting to throw any morsels to the gossip crowd, which was still hungry even though the initial furor had died down following Rachel and the boys’ sudden return.
We were taking it slow. Nothing physical other than a gentle kiss here and there. That was more than fine by me. I was happy enough being in her company, listening to her voice, making her laugh if I could. She was laughing more often now, and I thought that was a very good sign. I wondered if she was singing again.
To be honest I’d been deeply afraid she and the boys would move completely out of Sandford. It wouldn’t have surprised anyone. Word about David and Father Mathew had gotten around the entire town so quickly you would’ve thought it had been planted in the collective consciousness overnight. Not that I’d heard anyone say anything against Rachel, but there was an undercurrent to how people spoke of her. Almost as if when they said it was a tragedy and what a horrible situation she’d been put in, they were also saying she should’ve done something different. I guessed a few of them, though they’d never admit it, wished she would’ve kept everything to herself. Then the nasty underbelly could’ve stayed hidden and no one would’ve been inconvenienced with the knowledge.
Overall, things seemed to be healing, and Rachel hadn’t said anything about moving farther than the little two story she’d purchased on the south side of town.
I watched Alicia and Emmy race over to Asher and Joey, smiled at how the boys’ faces lit up when they saw them. The children struck up an immediate game of tag and flew over to the playground to continue it among the jungle gym and slides. Both Asher and Joey were in therapy, and Rachel said they were doing a little better, but it would take years. Children were resilient, nothing short of miracles really, and I hoped someday they would both be able to come to terms with what had happened. I hoped I’d be able to help.
“You think Cory will make it today?” Dad asked as we sidled up to the table where a dozen or more dishes were laid out. Kel and I shared a look as she added an apple pie she’d baked to the soiree of food.
“Don’t think so, Dad,” I said, helping him with a plate. “Maybe next week, though.” He seemed to accept this and spooned some potato salad beside a chunk of steak. I was dreading when he started to ask about Emma or our mother. For now I counted every relatively good day as a blessing.
And as blessings went, the news I’d received two days before definitely counted. All charges against me had been officially dropped by the Sandford district attorney. Not that they hadn’t tried to make them stick, mind you. I had been called back into the station no fewer than four times throughout the summer to answer questions, but with each session it became more and more apparent they were only treading water, not making any real headway. It was because there was nothing tying me to anything beyond what I’d already admitted. No incriminating evidence, nothing a jury or judge would deem worthy of hard time.