Chapter 9
“You’ve got plenty of food and water in your bowls to last you until I get back.”
Kitty Purry ignores my comment like I’m beneath her notice.
She knows I’m leaving and wants to make sure I’m aware of her displeasure.
Her Highness is keenly offended that I expect her to consume kibble that’s been put into an automatic feeder instead of being served to her.
Not to mention the fact the food will not be one hundred percent fresh. Just who do I think I am?
I collect my purse and the lasagna from the kitchen counter, then slowly approach my cat. Her tail flicks the closer I get. She waits until my hand is a breadth away from giving her a scratch on the head before she saunters out of reach, an air of offense following in her wake.
“I’ll see you when I get back,” I call to her as I open the front door. Once she forgives me and deigns to allow me back in her presence, that is.
The morning is crisp, and I take in a lungful of fresh air as I walk to my car.
I’m looking forward to seeing Grampie and Granny, but not so much the congestion of the city.
Chattanooga is by no means on par with New York City or Chicago, but I’ve been living in a small town with only three traffic lights in the whole municipal limits for a hot minute now.
I’ve gotten used to raccoons as my neighbors and being woken up when they decide to have a party at my trash cans, rather than the traffic noises of I-75 or the loud music my neighbor liked to play until one o’clock in the morning.
A northern bobwhite calls out in its distinct two-whistle pattern.
I pause at the side of my car and peer into the underbrush of the woods around my cabin.
The small quail is easily camouflaged among the foliage.
Without him whistling out his own name—bobwhite!
—I’d never know the fowl was even there.
He calls again, but I can’t see him, so I go ahead and open the car door, set the lasagna and my purse on the passenger seat, and slide behind the wheel.
I plug my phone in so that CarPlay will connect, then open the audiobook app and click the green triangle to start playing the epic fantasy I’m in the middle of.
The drive to Chattanooga is along a windy two-lane highway that hugs the mountains. Caution signs for rockslides are posted along the road as well as plenty of pullouts for slower vehicles or those wanting to rest and take in the breathtaking view of the Cherokee National Forest.
The scenery opens up along with the lanes as I descend into the valley.
Before long, I see the city sprawl on the banks of the Tennessee River, Signal Mountain on one side as sentinel and Lookout Mountain on the other.
The mountains are rich in Civil War history, one being an important communication spot of Union troops, while the other was the setting of a skirmish known as the Battle Above the Clouds.
Now, however, they are both popular destinations for tourists and locals alike.
Signal Mountain has a gorgeous vista of the Tennessee River Valley that excites hikers, while Lookout Mountain is known for its incline railroad, a 145-foot waterfall inside a limestone cave called Ruby Falls, and See Rock City, one of the only places in the United States where you can see seven states from one vantage point.
The narrator of the audiobook has a slight British accent, making me wonder if the fictional kingdom of Lilyra was inspired by that great island.
Probably a far cry from the backwoods or even the big city of the Volunteer State.
Although, with how often Lilyra is on the brink of war with the neighboring northern kingdoms, she could use an ally in a nation nicknamed for its eagerness to step forward in times of war.
I increase the reading speed to 1.5 on the app, then reach up and slide the wig from my head. I’m far enough away from Little Creek that I’m safe from anyone in my adopted speck of a town finding out about my secret.
While the wig gives me a measure of comfort and security, it also seems to take a little bit of me away as well. Which makes no sense, I know. How can something make me feel both more like me and less like me at the same time? I can’t explain it. Probably because I don’t understand it myself.
All I know is, it’s nice to be able to take the wig off every once in a while.
The synthetic hair isn’t necessarily uncomfortable to wear (although it is a little itchy), but not having to worry about the wig slipping or someone discovering I’m hiding something is a bit freeing.
I can just be me. Who I am now. No pretenses. Nothing fake. No hiding.
My skin prickles as I pass the exit to the Walnut Street Bridge, and not just because of the coolness of the car’s air conditioning.
The iconic blue-trussed walking bridge that suspends over the Tennessee River used to hold many happy memories for me.
Brett and I went on our first official date to the Tennessee Riverpark at the foot of the bridge.
We got scoops on cones at the Ice Cream Show and then leisurely strolled across the bridge, stopping to peer down at the flowing current below us and cheer on a group of kayakers who were training for an upcoming race.
We laughed together as our ice creams melted in the warm summer heat and dripped onto our hands.
Brett had even gently wiped a smudge of smeared chocolate from the corner of my lips for me.
I accelerate, putting distance between the bridge and my memories until they’re only dots in my rearview mirror.
One day, maybe this beautiful city won’t have the power to dredge up a painful lump that sits behind my breastbone.
Until then, I focus my mind on the reason I endure the unpleasant walk down memory lane in the first place: my family.
I can come and soak up the love they have for me, then retreat to my little cove in the mountains.
I just have to ignore the reminders that my life isn’t turning out like I’d planned.
But that’s okay. I have a new plan. I may be officially off the marriage mart (why, yes, I did just binge a regency series), but now I’m the respectable chaperone introducing potential couples to one another at a ball (I’m speaking figuratively here) and watching with the overwhelming satisfaction that only a meddling mama can have when interest sparks during a waltz.
Granny and Grampie’s townhouse comes into view, and I pull in behind their car in the driveway.
Penelope’s little Volkswagen Beetle is parked in front of the house.
I’ll have a reprieve from her badgering me about the anniversary party while our grandparents are near, but I have no doubt she’ll devise a way to get us alone so she can hound me again.
Granny is standing in the doorway with a welcoming smile on her lips when I trudge up the front steps, balancing the lasagna in my arms.
“Oh, sugar, it’s good to see you.” She steps aside, beaming at me as I walk into the house, then follows me into the kitchen, where I set the casserole dish on the counter.
As soon as my arms are free, she wraps me in a warm hug smelling of the Chanel No.
5 she always puts on before church. A wave of nostalgia washes over me, and I squeeze her just a tiny bit harder.
“There now,” she says as she pulls away enough to get a good look at me. “It’s good to have my baby back home.”
“I’m twenty-seven, Granny. I haven’t been a baby in a long time.” This is a script we’ve been performing ever since I can remember.
The lines on her face deepen as she smiles. “Doesn’t matter how old you are. You’ll always be my baby.” She squeezes my hand again, imputing all her love in the small gesture.
I look around the kitchen and into the great room. “Where’s Grampie and Penelope? I saw her car out front.”
Granny rolls her eyes. “They’re down in the basement working on one of their models.”
Grampie had built both Penelope and I wooden dollhouses when we were girls.
Penelope’s had been a miniature model of a Victorian home complete with gables and cornices on the outside and handcrafted furniture pieces that were exact replicas of the time period as well.
Mine had been a New England cottage with a lighthouse attached to it, but instead of making it a family home, I’d talked him into converting the inside into a bookstore.
“Since when did Penelope start building with him?” My sister isn’t exactly very handy when it comes to tools or construction.
Granny gives me a look I can’t quite decipher, then motions me toward the stairs that lead to the basement.
“I forgot you haven’t been down there the last few times you’ve visited.
Just be prepared that it may be different than you remember.
” There’s part humor, part pride, and part exasperation in her voice.
The last time I’d been down to Grampie’s hobby area, he’d been in the middle of constructing a replica of a colonial house someone would have seen at Jamestown.
I’m not even sure who he was building the dollhouse for, just that he likes to spend hours tinkering on his model projects now that he’s retired.
“I think it needs to go a little bit more to the left.” Penelope’s voice drifts up the stairwell as I make my way down.
“Are you sure?” Grampie doesn’t sound convinced.
“Yes. Here, listen again.”
I step down the last riser and wait at the bottom of the stairs with Granny. Penelope and Grampie have their backs toward us, heads bent over something on Grampie’s worktable that I can’t see because their bodies are blocking anything from view.
“Because of the blood splatter on the walls, the police think the suspect faced the victim at an angle, standing just slightly to the victim’s right.” Penelope presses pause on her phone. “See?”
“I suppose you’re right. So about here do you think?”
“Huh-hem.” Granny clears her throat.