Chapter 8
EIGHT
I gazed up at the courthouse, pulse pounding. I’d never been inside one, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew what happened in places like these.
“Where are we?” I asked, my voice shakier than I’d have liked.
Marge threw open the door without waiting for a response. I wrapped one hand around the strap of my backpack, prepared to run if I needed to.
Betty Jo climbed out and opened the door for me. Cautiously, I slid out, every nerve ending on high alert.
“My nephew works here.” Without waiting to see if we were behind her, Marge started walking toward the main entrance.
My stomach sank. I slung the backpack over my shoulder, feet rooted to the ground. “Why are we here?”
Marge halted in place, then spun on a heel and propped her hands on her hips. “If there’s anything I hate more than cheaters, it’s self-absorbed men who think women have no value.”
I stared at her.
She threw up her hands in exasperation. “We’re going to the clerk’s office to get you an ID. Because you deserve it, damn it.”
She spun around and stalked toward the door, practically ripping it off its hinges as she swept inside.
I couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. Somehow I summoned the energy to make my lips move. “Is she serious?”
“As a heart attack.” Betty Jo’s voice was filled with humor. “Now, come on, before she tears the place apart.”
Stepping into the clerk’s office felt surreal, like I was walking through a dream. A healthy dose of respect and fear kept me a few steps behind her as she strode purposefully toward the man behind the counter. “She needs a copy of her birth certificate and Social Security card.”
The man, who I assumed was Marge’s nephew, didn’t even blink at her demand. “Hello, Aunt Marge.”
Her chin dipped, and she drummed her nails on the counter. “Are you going to make this difficult?”
The man—Daniel—cracked a grin. “Never.”
Marge snorted. Daniel shifted his gaze to me, and he smiled. “You need replacement documents?”
“Yes, please,” I said quietly. My stomach twisted violently, and I suddenly worried that I might be sick. What if this didn’t work? Would they throw me in jail for fraud?
“Sure thing.” Daniel turned to the computer in front of him and clicked around a few times. A machine whirred somewhere in the background, and Daniel turned around, snatched something up, then extended it my way. “Here you go. Birth certificate application, and a Social Security request.”
I had memorized Lily Anderson’s information, and I filled out the forms carefully. My heart thudded heavily in my chest with each scratch of the pen against the paper, hyperaware of the three sets of eyes on me.
If they questioned anything…
If they asked for proof…
But it went far more smoothly than I ever imagined—which had less to do with me and far more to do with the two women standing beside me. Together, they smoothed over every hesitation, every missing detail.
Daniel processed the application, and the printer behind him came alive once more. He retrieved the document, then passed it my way.
The birth certificate bearing Lily Anderson’s name shook as I studied it. It was real. Legal. I couldn’t believe it.
Daniel smiled at me. “Your social security card should arrive within a couple of weeks. Make sure to take that with you when you apply for your driver’s license. Good luck.”
“Thanks a million,” Betty Jo said.
Marge just smacked the counter, indicating that her job here was complete, then spun and headed toward the door.
“Bye, Aunt Marg,” Daniel called after her, exasperation tinging his voice.
She threw up one hand in a vague wave but never slowed. I barely noticed my surroundings as I fell into step next to Betty Jo and followed Marge outside.
Throat clogged with emotion, I couldn’t speak a single word.
We climbed into the car and Marge shifted into gear.
I felt the road spinning away beneath the tires but I couldn’t bring myself to look away from the paper in my hands, like if I tore my gaze away for more than a second it would disappear into thin air.
My name—my new name—sat there in neat black type, as if it had always belonged to me. I still couldn’t believe it. This was real—Lily Anderson was real.
I pressed the corner of the paper into the pad of my forefinger until a sharp sting bloomed, reassuring me that I was awake—this wasn’t just a dream.
“Everything okay, dear?” Betty Jo’s voice cut through my thoughts.
I glanced up and nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ve just… I’ve never seen one of these before.”
The trace of pity in her eyes made my chest tighten painfully. She gave a knowing nod. “Most people don’t think twice about them,” she said. “But for you… it’s a fresh start.”
The words settled over me, equal parts comfort and pressure. I’d come this far, yet the future loomed before me, uncertain.
“Are you excited?”
I nodded again, but slower this time. “Excited… and nervous.”
“That sounds about right.” She shifted slightly in her seat, a slight shadow passing over her eyes. “Starting new can be hard. Harder than folks expect.
“I remember when my Edgar passed,” she said. “It seemed like my whole world had stopped, and everything around me kept moving. The sun still came up every morning, while all I wanted was to lie in bed and forget. It felt wrong to go on without him—like I was betraying him, somehow.
“But then I realized I was letting him down. I was allowing myself to slowly wither away and die. If he could have seen me…” She shook her head and gave a low whistle. “He’d never have let me hear the end of it. So I made myself get out of bed and start living again.”
She lifted one finger in my direction. “It was hard, make no mistake about that. Everything reminded me of him. Every coffee cup, the pair of boots next to the front door. At first, it hurt—so much that I thought I couldn’t go on.
I thought about donating it all. But after a while it became a comfort seeing his things laying around.
Now I see those old pictures, or put on that old coat of his and smile, because I was so lucky to have had his love. ”
Tears clogged my throat and burned across the bridge of my nose. I couldn’t fathom loving someone that much.
From the driver’s seat, Marge made a low sound of agreement, her eyes never leaving the road. “He was a good man.”
“He was,” Betty Jo said, a small smile curving the corners of her mouth.
Then, as if flipping a switch, she brightened.
“Oh, but you have your whole life ahead of you,” she said, turning slightly so she could include me again.
“You’ll love Pine Ridge. Wait till you meet everyone.
They’ll know your name before the day’s out. ”
“Don’t scare the girl,” Marge muttered.
Betty Jo waved her off with a grin. “Community, Marge. It’s called community.”
“It’s called gossip,” Marge shot back.
I couldn’t help the grin that overtook my face. The friendly bickering felt so natural, so welcome, and I settled back in my seat as Betty Jo regaled us with stories.
Time spun away as the miles passed until finally a green sign appeared in the distance. I sat up straight and leaned forward, craning my neck for a better look.
PINE RIDGE, Population 1412.
The numbers felt impossibly small. Barely more than the number of people who’d lived on the compound with us. Somehow, though, it just felt right. I knew instinctively that Pine Ridge would be nothing like Steele’s club. Here, freedom awaited.
Marge flipped on her blinker and turned onto Main Street.
I found myself leaning forward, eyes darting from one storefront to the next.
It was exactly how Betty Jo described—quaint, almost frozen in time.
A row of businesses lined both sides of the street, their windows dressed in seasonal colors.
Rust and gold leaves clung to trees and gathered along the sidewalks, stirred now and then by the passing car.
A couple walked by, bundled in light jackets, their laughter carrying faintly through the glass. Someone waved at Marge as we rolled past. She lifted two fingers off the wheel in acknowledgment.
“Would you look at them? Waving to neighbors, right out in the open. Shameless,” Betty Jo murmured teasingly.
Marge slid a reproachful glance at her friend before turning her gaze back to the road. I bit back a smile as I greedily drank in the sights. Side streets branched off here and there, leading toward neighborhoods I couldn’t yet see.
“What do you think?” Betty Jo asked, flashing a smile over her shoulder at me.
I was in complete awe of the quaint little town. “It’s beautiful.”
We slowed, then pulled to a stop in front of a florist shop. The display window overflowed with autumnal arrangements—golden mums, deep red Chrysanthemums, and clusters of miniature gourds. A wooden sign swung gently above the door.
I looked between the two women, my heart squeezing painfully in my chest. “I really don’t know how I’m going to repay you—both of you.”
Marge shifted the car into park, the engine ticking softly as it idled. She met my gaze in the mirror, and suddenly she grinned with a malicious sort of glee. “Oh, I have an idea.”