I cringe at the immature phrase and shake my head.
“No need for betting any such thing.”
“So you believe us?” Sue asks, wide eyed and eager. This must seem like a real-life Cinderella moment from her sheltered, childlike perspective. The bus stops for the third time. It’s my stop. I collect my things, including the fancy new shoes, and smile at the girls.
“In general, I believe nothing I hear and only half of what I see,” I say, quoting some saying I’ve heard somewhere—maybe church or maybe a film I can’t place. I feel quite dramatic as I turn on my muddy heels and leap down the stairs, leaving them with that enigmatic response.
They’ll likely linger on it, and it’ll become part of their T. B. Highward mythology. Tom, a rich fool who joined the army to prove something to his father? It sounds like the storyline for some comedy or an epic romance where the “playboy millionaire” learns life lessons while serving in the army. I guess it’s possible. Nowadays everything seems possible—the good and the bad.
But there’s one thing I know for sure: handsome rich men fall for small-town nobodies in movies, but in real life, they marry women with money and a pedigree that their families would approve of. T. B. Highward, whoever he may be, likely has a girl lined up at home for his heroic return from battle. And that girl could never be me.
My spirits darken as I wonder whether Tom could possibly be the same Highward written about in the newspapers. I turn down my street, wishing I had a way to hide the carton from Mrs. Brown, the busybody who lives on the corner. Unable to camouflage the bulky box, I walk as quickly as my tired feet allow.
I’ll know soon enough who the real Tom Highward is, I guess. Saturday will solve the mystery. And though I know papà will be reluctant to let me go, I’m determined to be honest for once in my life.
Papà will meet Tom, and I’ll be able to hold my head high the next time I go to confession. Perhaps God will see I’m trying. Life’s more complicated than it’s presented in church, and if anyone can understand that, it should be God since he made the world this way.
Balancing my belongings on my hip, I pull down the mailbox door and look for the damp washcloth Aria leaves me every night to clean the makeup off my face and dirt off my shoes before I see my father.
But today—it’s empty.
My shoulders tense. Aria’s never forgotten. Ever.
There’s no sign of life up the gravel drive or behind the darkened front windows. The sun’s setting, and the light on the front porch is off.
With trepidation, I make my way up the driveway, each crunching step bringing me closer to panic. I run up the stairs, the ringing in my ears reaching air-raid-siren levels. I won’t know if it’s a false alarm until I find my little sister.
I open the unlocked front door to the darkened living room and call out, “Aria?” and wait, hoping she’ll rush in with an eager apology and a reassurance. But my greeting echoes in the seemingly lifeless house. I’m transported back to the day we couldn’t find mamma, or the baby—the moment I learned life can irrevocably change forever. I close the door behind me, swallowed up in the darkness, and wonder if it’s happening all over again.
CHAPTER 23
Elise
Present Day
Streets of Edinburgh
“Hey, you lost?” Father Patrick slows to drive next to me as I walk down West Perry Street. I’ve been walking around for half an hour and still haven’t heard a word from my mom or Conrad or anyone else in the crew. I’m guessing （more like hoping） they’re still filming and haven’t forgotten me. The hotel is only three miles from downtown, and if I’d left right after my exit from the diner, I’d be in my swimsuit and hopping into the pool right about now.
“They’re running over on the shoot, and I drove in with my mom today, so I’m killing time until whenever they finish. I’m thinking about walking back to the hotel.” I squint down the road like I’m assessing the distance.
“I can give you a ride,” he offers, leaning across the seat. “I dropped off Mrs. Lee’s soup and have a few minutes.”
“Yeah?” I ask, reaching out for the car-door handle, but then I stop short.
Is it a good idea to get in a car with Patrick given my discussion with my mom and the gossip that’s festering about our friendship? Or a more difficult question—as an engaged woman, should I be alone in a car with a man I’m developing feelings for, even if he’s a priest?
“You know what; on second thought, I’ll walk it.” I pat the car frame.
“To the hotel?”
“Yeah. I mapped it. It’s not far.”
He looks concerned. “It’s a whole lot of cornfields and industrial complexes. Not exactly a walking path.”
“I walk three miles in New York every day. Three miles in Edinburgh, Indiana, doesn’t scare me.”
“There are sidewalks in New York,” he offers. “No one expects to come upon a woman in designer jeans and a blazer walking down Walnut. Some of these trucks are so big they might not notice if they crushed you.”
I consider the options. I could let him drive me to the hotel and fight the guilt over how badly I want to say yes. I could let him bring me back to Main Cross Street, but then my mom would see me in his car. I could say no again—this time more forcefully. I think he’d listen if I really insisted.
But do I want him to listen? Not really.
“Fiiiine,” I say, opening the car door and sliding into the passenger seat before I can mull over the decision any longer.
“I’m sorry?” he says, his apology sounding like a question. He moves a few file folders from the middle console to the back seat of the gray sedan. The upholstery is worn but clean, and the air in the car smells faintly of beef and barley soup.
“I meant—thank you,” I say in a softer tone.
It’s hard to be sincere with Patrick without feeling exposed, so I take out my phone and text Conrad and then my mom.
ELISE: I have a ride back to the room. No need to wait.
My phone rings within a second of the text going through. I answer, and my mom starts speaking without a hello.
“What do you mean you got a ride?” I can’t tell if she’s worried or mad.
“I got a ride back since things seem to be running late. Just giving you a heads-up.”
“You staying by the mall?” Patrick asks in a whisper as he pauses at a four-way stop.
“Yeah, Haymark Garden Inn,” I clarify.
“Perfect,” he says, taking a left.
“Who is that?” Mom asks, and I cringe. Do I lie, or do I tell the truth?
“My Uber driver,” I say with a guilty shrug toward Patrick.
“Mm-hmm. Sure it is,” she says, her response loaded with suspicion and innuendo. Conrad says something in the background. She changes to a stage whisper. “Listen—take your time. We’re stuck here for a while still. There’s no shame in a harmless flirtation . . .”
I cut her off, not sure how much Patrick can hear.
“I better go, Mom.”
“You’re so your father’s child,” she says as though it’s a massive insult, but I never take it that way.