Chapter 7 #2
“I only want what’s best for you,” her mother said, and with the dip in her voice and the press of her penciled brows, Fern believed her. She did want the best for her daughter.
But she also wanted Fern out of her hair. Out from under her roof where she had to think about her daughter every day. Worry about her. And now with these photographs from Rodney, the desire to be rid of her would only increase.
Fern closed the door and backed into her room. It was true that she barely left it, but it had everything she needed: books, paper, clothes, paints, a Victrola, and a wireless radio.
But could Fern find a purpose in her room?
That word burned through her mind, and she spent the next several hours trying to figure out what it meant.
Purpose. She wouldn’t have a husband or a family.
She likely wouldn’t ever have a job either.
What was she to do day in and day out? Young Acres.
You could be a teacher. Her mother’s voice was an echoing phantom.
Fern didn’t dress until past noon that day and then chose not to go down for dinner anyway.
She couldn’t bear to see her father or Buchanan, and she was sick to death of hearing her own thoughts about Young Acres, let alone having to listen to her mother speak of it again.
She picked at a tray Mrs. Jennaway sent up, but Fern wasn’t hungry, and anyhow, each bite of food felt as if it was hurtling down her throat into a roiling abyss.
By the time darkness fell, she was seated in her turret window again, eyes on the street.
She didn’t want to admit that she was looking for his car, but they were her own thoughts—it was pointless to be embarrassed by them.
For a while, she pretended to read, then picked up a pillowcase and worked on monogramming her initials onto the white cotton.
With every passing pair of headlights, however, she glanced up. A dull ache formed in her temples.
This was absurd. Cal wasn’t going to come, and hadn’t she already decided she wanted nothing to do with him or his gang ever again? They were dangerous. This room was safe.
But Francis had stood in the foyer downstairs. Cal had sat at their dinner table and sipped milk from one of their glasses. They had come into Fern’s home. Was it truly safe? The bruise under her eye made her think twice.
A flash outside stole Fern’s attention from the half-formed A on the pillowcase.
The needle poked through the cotton and slipped out of her fingers.
Was it a streak of lightning? All afternoon, the air had been dense and heavy, and gray skies had spread out like a sheet over the lake before nightfall.
The flash came again. It was from a car parked in the same spot as the night before—by the street curb in front of their neighbor’s home.
Fern dropped the pillowcase. Something like a boulder lodged in her throat while at the same time, bees took flight in her stomach.
He was watching her from where he sat behind the wheel of his Roadster. Waiting for her to decide.
It was safe up here, high in this turret, away from the real world. But for how long?
She touched the windowpane with her fingertips.
The perspiration on her skin made them slip down the glass.
Somehow, she knew that he would not return; if she didn’t go to him tonight—now—there would never be another chance.
What if he had something important to tell her? Some news about the photographs?
Fern held up her index finger. Wait. She hoped he could see it.
She then ran to the closet. From inside, she pulled a simple black overcoat.
Too warm for the summer weather, but the dark color would blend into the darkness when she stole across the lawn and onto the street.
Her breathing seemed as loud as a panting dog as she made her way down the hall.
There was an entrance to a side staircase for Mrs. Jennaway and the maids who came in each week to clean and launder, but at this hour, it would be deserted.
Carpeted steps absorbed all sound. At the basement level, a locked door led outside, with a small flight of brick steps descending to the side lawn.
What was she thinking? What was she even going to say to him? As she closed the door to the basement behind her and hurried across the grass to the small gate at the front of the yard, Fern was certain her sanity had completely lapsed.
The Roadster sat waiting. Headlights off.
The windshield was a black expanse. Her breathing turned choppy as she waited for two cars to finish driving past her home.
She glanced back at the house. The lights were on in numerous windows on every floor, but no one stood within one, looking out at her.
Finally, she opened the front gate. Considered stopping.
Turning back. But her feet and brain weren’t connected any longer, and so she kept going.
The passenger side door creaked open as she approached.
Fern jumped back. No one got out, however, and she realized Cal must have leaned across the front seat and pulled the handle himself.
Dragging in a breath, she opened the door all the way and ducked inside.