Chapter 36 Present
The tires skid slightly on the wet pavement.
“I hate this,” I mutter, as if someone were listening.
Panic sets in just slightly as I glance at my watch—fifteen minutes to make it to the club.
Mrs. Betty never missed a “Ladies Who Lunch” bridge game, so when I called to arrange a meeting, the Country Club was non-negotiable.
Her social calendar came first. Seeing her name in print was just the cherry on top.
I tightened my grip on the wheel and eased into the gas—navigating the wet streets of Shay with cautious ease.
The town looked washed out in the rain—white buildings and headlights blurred as I sped by.
Thankfully, I didn’t wreck or keep the guest of honor waiting. I pulled into the parking lot with three minutes to spare.
The place looked exactly how I remembered it: manicured hedges, polished stone steps, and a carved wooden sign that had probably been power-washed three times this week.
She insisted on a private dining room for our meeting—said it made her feel “fancy and important.” Her words. Not mine. I guess that’s on me—I didn’t correct her when she called me a reporter.
I suppose “being interviewed by a reporter,” sounded more impressive than “talking to some journalist who’s writing a fluff piece.”
The ladies at the salon would just eat it up.
I could already picture Betty, center stage, soaking up the attention between her deep conditioning treatment and her turn under the bouffant dryer.
Thinking back to pink capes, foam curlers, and Formica workstations—I could almost smell the perm solution and feel the warm blast of the dryer hood on my neck.
As I parked the car and killed the engine, the smell of the fictious salon subsided but the heat lingered.
The nerves settled in as I stepped out—I made it under the covered entry just in time for the rain to pick back up. I shook off my coat and headed inside.
I’d only been in the club a handful of times, but like most places in Shay, it looked exactly like it always had—unchanged, untouched, and perfectly preserved.
Carpets of a deep red hue extended over the floor. The air smelled faintly of old perfume, cigar smoke, and something lemony—like the ghosts of past luncheons still lingered in the upholstery.
Mrs. Betty was already on her feet by the time I stepped through the door. Her lipstick was fresh, her pearls perfectly centered, and one manicured hand rested lightly on the edge of the table, like she was posing for a photo.
She wore a blush pink suit—soft but sharp—with a matching handbag perched beside her chair like a trusted companion.
When she saw me, her face lit up with theatrical relief.
“There you are, darling! I was starting to think you’d melted in the rain.”
I forced a polite laugh as I reached for her hand. “Not quite. Just had to find a place to anchor my boat.”
We both let out a small chuckle as she looped her arm through mine and led me toward our room.
“Oh, this weather’s good luck,” she said matter-of-factly. “Rain means a clean start.” She gave a little wink as the words left her lips.
I wasn’t sure what she meant by clean start, but something in her tone told me I was about to find out.
The doors to the main dining area swung open, warm air and the scent of expensive coffee wrapping around us like an old memory.
The lounge was filled with murmured conversations, clinking teacups, and women in pastel suits with carefully styled hair.
Every head turned just slightly as we walked in.
Suddenly, the jeans and button-up I’d thrown on this morning felt like a mistake.
I pulled my jacket forward, hoping no one would notice how underdressed I really was.
Mrs. Betty leaned in. “You brought a notebook, didn’t you?”
I patted my bag. “Of course.”
“Good,” she said, her eyes sweeping the room like she was already deciding who she'd gossip with once I was gone. “Because once we sit down, I’m not holding back.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be excited or terrified. Maybe both.
The nerves I’d felt earlier faded as soon as I began asking questions.
I settled into the rhythm easily—comfortable, focused, and fully present.
I wasn’t the uncertain teenager who once tiptoed around Mrs. Betty’s sharp tongue.
I was a journalist now, with a clear voice and the quiet confidence of knowing I could shape the story from here.
She had plenty to say—but I would choose what parts were worth printing.
She was fully enjoying the attention—having left the door cracked just enough for people to sneak a peek—curious glances drifting our way as they tried to guess what we might be discussing.
She’d be answering more questions later, no doubt—making the rounds, clearing up any speculation, and adding a few little embellishments of her own.
I was preparing to wrap up the interview—much to Mrs. Betty’s dislike—when I asked if she had anything else she wanted to add.
“Yes.”
She paused, as if deciding whether she truly wanted to finish the thought.
My face must have betrayed my surprise as she drew in a deep breath and reached over to turn off the recorder.
Her voice came just above a whisper, her eyes fixed on the delicate pattern of the china cup in her hand.
“I never told you—or anyone, for that matter—but I saw you that night. Running from the house.”
Her tone was more concerned than accusing.
The words pulled the air from the room—suffocating me completely.
“Here,” she said, reaching into her handbag. “You dropped this.”
She set a plastic bag on the table. Inside was a folded yellow dress, still stained with mud.
I shifted in my seat, trying to act like I wasn’t shaken—but the room had already started to spin.
My stomach dropped as my mind scrambled to fully grasp what she was saying.
I wanted to run. Disappear.
But before I could move, she reached across the table and grabbed my hand.
“I know this isn’t what you were expecting.”
Her voice was sincere and calm.
I still couldn’t breathe. My chest tightened, my vision swam.
I had never cried during an interview before. But I couldn’t stop it—no matter how hard I tried.
One lone tear slipped free.
She reached over and brushed it from my cheek with a care that caught me completely off guard.
“I might talk a lot,” she said softly, “but even I know some things are better left unsaid.”
She patted my hand—a quiet gesture that told me this part of the interview would never be spoken of over sweet tea and sandwiches.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the moment settle between us.
Eventually, my breath began to steady—slow and measured.
Without a word, we both rose to our feet
She reached around my shoulders and pulled me into a tight, comforting embrace—reassuring me once again that my secret was safe with her.
With hands trembling—I picked up the plastic bag and put it with the rest of my things.
I took a few more deep breaths—bracing myself to walk into a room full of watchful eyes.
I needed to hold it together even though I was completely falling apart.
Before I could take another step, Mrs. Betty gently pulled me just out of sight and squared my shoulders to face her.
“Put on your best smile, darlin’ and walk out of this room with confidence,” she said firmly. “They have no idea—and we’re not about to let them think they do.”
She straightened her suit jacket, fluffed her white hair, and stood a little taller.
With one final smile and a wink, we walked out into the grand room arm in arm.
At the door, she pulled me in for a final embrace before turning back to her audience.
Whatever performance she was about to give, I knew it would be delivered flawlessly—minus a few key details, of course.
Meanwhile, I hurried to my car, the rain beating against my skin.
I knew the moment I shut the door; the panic I’d been holding back would crash over me—pulling me under in a slow, consuming wave of guilt and regret.