Words Unspoken (20 page)

If only I could get past the Now.

________

When Ev MacAllister picked up Lissa for her lesson, she wore an expression that Ev called “being busy in her mind.” She was brooding. They didn’t talk on the twenty-minute drive from Chattanooga Girls School to the Chickamauga Military Park. Perhaps anger helped her drive, he considered, as she handled the car skillfully along the battlefield tour route. Twice she did the loop with not one problem. When she parked by the visitor center and cut the engine, the thoughts that had been preoccupying her spilled out in a rush of words that surprised him.

“I realize how much I want to learn. I love studying. History and learning, this is life to me. But I just can’t do it. That’s all. I can’t.”

“Do you know why?”

“I’m trying to figure it out.” She looked over at him and asked, “Do you believe there’s a reason for the things that happen, Mr. MacAllister?”

“A reason?”

“Yes. Do you think there’s a reason my mother was killed in a horrible accident?”

He felt his whole face sag. “Oh, Lissa. That’s a hard question.”

“I know. But you seem like a reflective man, and I thought, well … I thought you might have something to say on the subject. Never mind.”

Before Ev could formulate how he wanted to answer, Lissa set a spiral notebook on Ole Bessie’s dashboard and said, “Here’s my homework.”

So that was it. “Good, Lissa. Thank you for doing this.”

He drove her home, again in silence. The only sound was Ole Bessie’s purring motor and the occasional piercing of a siren from somewhere along Highway 2. But when Ev started up the steep, curving road to Lookout Mountain, she broke the silence.

“I might as well warn you that it’s not very light reading. It’s just me venting. But you can read it if you want to.”

“I will do that, Lissa. Indeed.” He pulled into the driveway of the white manor house. He could imagine its breathtaking view off the other side, perched way above the city. “See you on Monday.”

“Yeah, on Monday. Thanks.”

Ev read Lissa’s scribbled pages out on the porch with the heat of the day, along with the sun, receding behind the mountains. He could almost feel her anguish—the tormented soul, the angry adolescent. How could he help her?

He contemplated calling her father and trying to talk to him. Could this man not see what his flippant comments and sudden bursts of rage were doing to his daughter?

Long ago, he and Annie had agreed that he would not meddle in the private lives of his clients. Pray, invite them for dinner, offer advice, pray some more. The Almighty could handle the problems much better than he could. Occasionally it became clear that he had another role to play. But not immediately. Only after objective consideration and prayer.

Pray. Yes, he prayed for the girl. Prayed for her anger to melt away. For healing. For redemption. For getting past the
now
, as she put it.

Ev did not know how to encourage her past grief. After all, thirtyfive years later, his still felt fresh, like dew on the morning grass, like a sudden chill, like a creaking of the stairs at night. Somewhere inside he carried the slow ache of missing Tate. Janelle carried the ache of losing Josh. How could he promise Lissa that her ache would heal, go away, even lessen?

He longed to declare that God Almighty could do a miracle, would bring good out of bad, would give her a future. This he believed with all his heart. He knew it to be true in his life. But he could not promise her the ache would go away. He could not promise her she could ever go back to
before
.

A reason? Was there a reason? He did not know. He did not dare pronounce a judgment.

But he held her papers in his hand and knew one thing. Lissa Randall was a butterfly, a delicate beauty, and her words, her prose, would settle softly on hearts and grace the lonely and the hurt because she dared to express all that she had suffered.

This was not the reason. But this was the outcome. It could be redeemed if she would let it.

________

Thank heavens for the breeze. It wasn’t fall weather, but at least the heat wave had passed. Katy Lynn kicked the sand as she headed through the dunes of Carnon and out onto the beach. The Mediterranean shimmered like diamonds in front of her. The sand warmed her bare feet. The beach held scattered bathers at three in the afternoon. Nice, firmly packed sand, a wide beach that went on and on. She could walk for hours! Ah, now
this
was more like it. She planned to walk straight to La Grand Motte, the vacation town about three miles down the beach— unmistakable with strange geometric buildings rising on the horizon, looking like a child’s Lego configuration.

A warm breeze was blowing across the beach and she breathed it in. Finally, a few minutes alone to herself, without Janelle’s sad eyes following her, without the awkward pauses in conversation, without little Sandy coming into the bedroom at any time and asking a hundred questions. It felt grand to be outside, out of that claustrophobic little house, walking along a wide expanse of beach!

Gina would be thrilled to hear. Katy Lynn decided she wouldn’t mention the fact that dogs actually defecated on the beach, or that it was virtually impossible to find a restroom. She would tell her daughter that there were plenty of bare breasts lying open to the wind and sun, even in early October. Gina would giggle at that tidbit.

Katy Lynn felt sorry for her sister. That was it, plain and simple. Truth be told, Janelle seemed to be a bigger wreck than she herself was. She might be going through a divorce, but Janelle was dying on the inside. Katy Lynn knew the awful signs of depression very well—and despite all her baby sister’s religious faith, Janelle showed them all. Somehow this made Katy Lynn cry.

She thought of her miscarriage at four months—their first baby, the first pregnancy—and the horrible shock, the eat-your-insides-out grief. She couldn’t imagine the pain of losing a living child. A precious three-year-old, blond-haired blue-eyed toddler. She had made the trek to the cemetery with Janelle the day before. No words spoken. Janelle had not exactly invited her into this private grief, but for some reason Katy had felt compelled to go.

Janelle did not want pity, of course. Katy Lynn considered this and decided she didn’t feel pity. It was something more like a perplexing admiration. Katy Lynn’s heart—her mother-heart—hurt for her baby sister, and that surprised her. It almost comforted her. How nice—no,
different—
to have someone else to worry about for a change.

She sloshed out into the water, refreshingly chilly, and continued along in the shallow tide. Brian said she could walk to La Grande Motte in twenty-five minutes. Once there, she’d find a seat at a little café and treat herself to a strong coffee and some ice cream. Janelle had offered to pick her up at five. Katy Lynn wasn’t about to ride the bus back to their house. Yes, it was too bad they only had one car, but Janelle assured her that after she picked up the kids at school and let them off at home, it would be no problem to come and pick Katy Lynn up.

Katy Lynn breathed in deeply. Maybe she would just stay with them after all. The weather had cooled while her concern for this family had warmed.

Strange. How very strange.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 6

Ted hung up the phone, almost slamming it down onto the receiver.
Keep your cool, man
, he told himself. Why weren’t these clients interested? The first guy on Friday had been delighted with the idea of the three new junk bonds.

Yesterday’s trip to visit Youngblood Publishers had kept him out of the office all day, away from the phone. Now today, this was his fourth call to a high-risk client, and again it was the same nervous tone in the voice, the hedging “Let me think about it, Ted,” concluding with his promise to call back in a few days.

His commission run showed 635,000 dollars, year to date. Things that had looked absolutely airtight only two weeks ago had come to a screeching halt. He still had time. One quarter, three months left. No need to panic, but suddenly 365,000 dollars’ worth of trading to do was making him nervous. He should have never breathed a word to Lin Su. Now all she could talk about was China! She was singing the kids Chinese lullabies, looking at the map. She’d even called her grandparents and giggled with them about how wonderful their time together would be.

The meeting with Eddy Clouse had been important. Extremely important. But S. A. Green’s royalties wouldn’t,
couldn’t
, help him make this year’s Million Dollar Club.

So what if he didn’t make it? He’d break the news to Lin Su. There would be a nasty scene, tears, accusations, even a few threats. But nothing more. Surely nothing more.

Anyway, he
would
make it. Junk bonds were still selling like hotcakes and paying the customers handsomely for taking the extra risk. Time to make a few more calls. It was just that simple.

He dialed another number. “Coleman? Hey, it’s Ted Draper here. How are you on this fine morning in October?”

He listened, the fake smile plastered on his face.

“Listen, I’ve got some great information on a couple of new junk bond issues, and it looks like the rates on these are going to be as good or better than the last ones we bought… .”

But the end of the conversation was the same. Not interested.

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10

Lissa enjoyed the drive along I-75 South from Chattanooga to Atlanta, memories of former drives rolling in her mind like the gentle hills on the horizon. A short hour and forty-five minutes away, Atlanta had beckoned her often for horse shows, for shopping, and for
this
, a little bookstore tucked into downtown Decatur. From I-75, Mrs. Gruder veered off onto I-85 and took the North Druid Hills exit, driving through the well-established neighborhood boasting stately, well-preserved old homes, wide open streets, and a luxurious tree-filled median separating the traffic. Driving through Druid Hills was like a trip around Lookout Mountain, minus the breathtaking views into the valley. It boasted prestige and quiet, respectable old wealth.

Soon they arrived in Decatur, best known for Emory University and its medical school and Agnes Scott College. Lissa had visited both of them two years ago. Applied to both, been accepted at both. She pushed those thoughts away as Mrs. Gruder parked the car along the street in front of The Sixth Declension.

Walking in, Lissa let herself be transported to
before
. It felt heavenly; the crowded shelves brimming with history, the smell of the old books with their cracking covers. She remembered bringing in her Neatsfoot oil once and offering to rub it into the leather.

“It works miracles on my saddle,” she told the aging store owner.

And Mr. Evan, as he liked to be called, had chuckled and said, “My clients come here for old, Lissa. It’s part of the charm and the authenticity.”

On this morning, Mr. Evan was stooping down behind the counter, lifting a box off the floor.

Mrs. Gruder stepped beside the cash register and proclaimed in the authoritative voice that had gained compliance from her students for years, “Hello, Evan! Your Chattanooga neighbors have come back for a visit.”

He stood up, pushed his wire-rimmed glasses back on his thin face, and squinted at them, then broke into a smile. “Well, the pleasure is all mine. Deb Gruder! And Lissa! Lissa Randall, I believe. Long time no see.”

Mrs. Gruder and Mr. Evan continued chatting, but Lissa headed to the shelves, not wanting to have to answer his questions about what she was doing with her life.

She gradually made her way farther back in the store where Mr. Evan kept the modern histories of Rome, the textbooks, the travel guides, and the coffee-table picture albums with the photos of Italian art and piazzas. The only other customer in the bookstore was a young man who sat at the back table, sipping a cup of coffee, his head lost in a book.

Lissa smiled to herself. Mr. Evan used to offer her coffee too when she sat in that spot, feverishly reviewing her Latin, poring over Horace and Virgil and Caesar and even the Bible. It seemed a lifetime ago.

She slipped between the table and the shelves, beginning a methodical search for the list of books she and Mrs. Gruder had compiled. She bumped the table and murmured “
Scusi
” without thinking, reverting to the Italian she enjoyed using with Mr. Evan.

The young man looked up, surprised. “
Parla Italiano
?”

“Oh, barely. Not well.” She blushed, staring at the shelves. “I’m better in Latin, which of course you can’t really speak.”

“Oh, but you can!
Puella!
And if you put the two languages together, you get
bella puella!
”

Lissa glanced around. Something about his voice was familiar.

He beat her to it. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“Yeah. I think we have. A long time ago.”

“You used to come in here with a group of girlfriends.”

“Yes, we were getting books to help us study for our high school Latin competition.”

“
Si
, I remember. You were good—going to the nationals, weren’t you?”