Chapter 19
nineteen
“What fire does not destroy, it hardens.” - Oscar Wilde
With no real plan, Jocelyn drove the weaving country roads until her anger cooled and her thoughts steadied. After spinning through the few options she had, the wild card she decided to play was one she’d almost forgotten about, which teased the guilt forward.
By the time the sun dipped behind the hills, she was turning into the drive up to her uncle’s house.
It wasn’t as far gone as she’d expected, even as the images of what she remembered rolled through her mind.
The paint was still peeling, the windows just as grimy, but the structure looked more solid than what was in her memory.
Her arrival kicked up dust, luring Joe Murphy out to the porch. He wore work coveralls and a scowl, both broken in from years of use. He didn’t walk down the porch steps or greet her as she got out of the car, and uncertainty settled over her like a blanket.
Nan hadn’t spoken with her younger brother in several years, cutting him off because of the number of times he’d called or come around asking for money when he’d blown all of what he had on booze and gambling.
Despite the lack of welcome, Jocelyn walked the few feet toward the porch, desperate more than hopeful.
“Well, ain’t this a surprise,” he said, eyeing her. “Bonnie’s little mini finally come to see me. Heard you were in town.”
Jocelyn shoved her hands into her pockets. “Hey, Uncle Joe.”
“Well, come on in.” His movements weren’t sloppy as he led the way, but hard living more than age had slowed him.
She mounted the porch carefully, surprised to find it sturdy—and new.
Inside, she stopped cold. Last they’d visited, years ago, the place had been filthy, cluttered, and nearly collapsing.
These walls were patched and painted with new light fixtures in place, and fresh trim had been nailed along the edges of floors, ceilings, and around windows and doors.
Joe’s mouth hitched at her stunned expression. “Welcome to my sobriety project.”
She couldn’t believe it. This hundred-year-old house had barely been hanging on when she was a kid.
Nan would lament that her childhood home was being destroyed by her lush of a younger brother.
Not that her grandmother’s memories of her upbringing were positive with the history of their family.
It was honestly no wonder her brother had walked the path of alcoholism and degeneracy.
But Nan had always said how much she loved the house and the history of it—built by her grandfather at the turn of the century.
Jocelyn peeked into the small bathroom—the only one in the house—to find a new vanity, an ornate mirror hanging above, and a checked floor tile design.
When she turned around, Joe was waiting in the archway between the living room and the kitchen, holding two glasses of sweet tea. A strangely sheepish expression cradled his prematurely weathered face—the result of a lifetime of heavy smoking and drinking.
“You did all this yourself?”
He shrugged a boney shoulder. “’Fraid so. Not the best work, but it beats the bottle.”
A laugh escaped her. “It looks amazing, Uncle Joe. Nan should see it.”
“Maybe when it’s finished,” he muttered, handing her a glass. He settled into one of two recliners, gesturing for her to sit. “Now tell me, Jossie, what brings you by?”
“That award they gave to John Hauser,” she said. “I owed it to him to come.”
Joe nodded slowly. “Heard it was a big deal.”
There was something in his expression she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but he said nothing more, his attention drifting to the TV across the room.
“Where you staying?” he asked, taking a sip of his tea.
Jocelyn released all the air in her lungs in a whoosh, sinking deeper into the chair. “I was at the Hollow Inn.”
Her tone pulled his focus from the TV. “Was?”
The light from the lamp caught in the crystal of her glass, and she stared at it a moment to steady herself.
“Well, there was a fire there tonight.”
He lurched forward, nearly spilling his tea. “What?”
“I wasn’t there. Lost my stuff, though.”
He eyed her with some level of suspicion that was all too familiar. “A fire where you’re staying. Don’t sound like coincidence.”
She gave him a grim smile. “I don’t think so either.”
That shrewd look remained on her. “You don’t suppose your mama’s was, either.”
“Nan never did.”
He snorted. “Fat lot of good it did her.”
The bitterness filled the air like an aroma, though it was true enough.
Nan had raged about it. Always said it wasn’t right, that they closed the investigation too quickly, that they all did her and Mama wrong.
But she sure didn’t like the idea of Jocelyn coming back, asking the questions she’d always wondered about.
Too much like stirring the pot, and that was something Nan never did.
“That why you’re really here?” Joe asked.
The look she slanted in his direction pulled a chuckle out of him.
He shook his head. “You sure are your mother’s daughter. Where your nan let life happen to her, your mama made damn sure she happened to life.”
It was strange hearing her mother described that way, knowing the life they’d led. A bit of scraping by that didn’t equate to much. But Mama sure did have that winning smile, and she loved to laugh. She’d sought out reasons to as often as she could. Maybe Jocelyn did remember a bit of a spark.
She wanted some of that. She wanted to happen to life.
“Stay here ’til you sort things out,” Joe said, turning back to the TV. “Got a room upstairs finished that needs a test-run.”
Relief softened her face. “Thanks, Uncle Joe.”
He nodded, seeming distracted. But then his flinty words hit her squarely. “And then you give those responsible for your mama the hell they deserve.”
Sunrise painted the old barn with warmth. What once had looked rickety and decrepit seemed stubborn and rugged in the new dawn.
Admittedly, it was probably just Jocelyn’s own mindset shift. She’d slept well despite the circumstances that had brought her to the house. But seeing what Uncle Joe had managed to do, a new determination shored up her bones.
Even something seeming too far gone could be rebuilt.
Joe stepped out onto the porch, and she turned.
“Made some waffles.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “Uncle Joe, you didn’t have to.”
He winked and held the screen door for her to head back in.
The pile of waffles proved he’d been cooking for a while, and he poured them each a cup of coffee as Jocelyn sat at the little round table. The floral tablecloth made her smile.
They ate in silence as minutes crept by, the time marked off by the sleek, minimalist clock that hung in the corner of the room. The minute hand caught the light, glinting a soft golden color that matched what touched the barn she could still see just outside the window over the sink.
There was hope in this little kitchen, all gleaming counter tops and refinished cabinets reflecting the morning light.
She turned to her uncle, waiting until he’d chewed down his most recent bite. “What made you decide to get sober?”
He didn’t seem bothered—or surprised—by the question. Sitting back with a sigh, he gave his head a shake. “It just don’t feel good to need something that bad.”
A note of anger rang in there, and maybe that was part of it, too. A person needed to hate the thing that had them so locked in its grip to break its hold.
Was that what Mama had done with her father? Why she’d been so unkind to him that last time Jocelyn had seen him come around? Though she’d never known Bonnie to give him an inch, Jocelyn knew her mama’s heart had held onto him for longer than she’d ever wanted it to.
Joe took in her pensive expression. “What’s your plan, Jossie?”
“Probably talk to Sally Anne again. I already asked her about Ned Turner.”
“Turner?” That name came chewed up as Joe spat it out. A history there, for sure. “Your landlord, back then, right?”
She nodded. “Do you know him well?”
Joe’s mouth pinched. “Worked with him for a bit. ’Fore I lost my job for bein’ drunk on the clock. He’s a mean old badger.” His beady eyes shifted to suspicious. “You think he had somethin’ to do with your mama’s fire?”
“It’s crossed my mind.”
He rubbed his palm over the white grizzle on his chin. “What do you need with Sally this time?”
“Aside from this new fire?”
His mouth tipped up.
“She was Mama’s best friend back then. She might know something I don’t. I’ve been digging, Uncle Joe. Digging deep, looking at old reports, making notes. But nothing beats talking to people who were there.”
Understanding lit in his gaze. “True enough.”
“Before seeing Sally Anne,” she said, “I want a shot at Ned Turner. Start with the harder case. You know where he lives?”
Joe’s lips pursed. “I do. But, Honey, I don’t know about you goin’ after him.”
She bristled but managed a tight smile. “I’ll be nice.”
“It’s not you bein’ nice I’m worried about.”
“I’ll be alright, Uncle Joe.”
He grunted.
When she rose to clear the dishes, Joe stopped her with a shake of his head. “You got stuff to do, Jossie, and you’re my guest. Let me handle it.”
She shot him a soft smile. “I’m family, not a guest.”
He gave his head another firm shake. “No, ma’am. I have a lot to make up to a lot of folks, you and your nan most of all. Please, let me take care of ’em.”
The earnestness in his face made her relent, if reluctantly. “Alright.”
She bent to kiss his cheek, and he smelled of sandalwood and menthol cigarettes.
“Give that old porcupine hell,” Joe said with a raspy chuckle as she headed out.