Chapters (38)
- one
- two
- three
- four
- five
- six
- seven
- eight
- nine
- ten
- eleven
- twelve
- thirteen
- fourteen
- fifteen
- sixteen
- seventeen
- eighteen
- nineteen
- twenty
- twenty-one
- twenty-two
- twenty-three
- twenty-four
- twenty-five
- twenty-six
- twenty-seven
- twenty-eight
- twenty-nine
- thirty
- thirty-one
- thirty-two
- thirty-three
- thirty-four
- thirty-five
- thirty-six
- thirty-seven
- epilogue
“I know you’ll take good care of our girl,” he said. “Goodbye, darling. I’ll see you soon.” She fought the urge to cry as he bent to kiss her.
“Bye, Tolly,” they chorused.
Violet scooted her chair out as soon as the front door closed. “If y’all don’t mind, I’m going to lie down.”
Her parents exchanged worried glances. “Of course, honey,” Alice said. “Get some rest.” She switched the light over the sink on and off, over and over. Nothing happened. She sighed in exasperation. “Doug, we have to get an electrician here. Please call somebody.”
“I’m goin’ to check the fusebox,” he muttered. “Probably blew another one.”
Alice rolled her eyes at Violet as she left the kitchen, a universal “See what I put up with?” among women.
If you only knew, Mama. Violet took the stairs slowly and collapsed on her childhood bed, inhaling the scents of home: Pine Sol from the hall bathroom, her mother’s Chanel No. 5, and Lemon Pledge. Her stomach lurched. She hurried to the bathroom down the hall, closing the door and leaning against it, trying to breathe.
Later she found the basket of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies on her dresser. “Welcome home, baby girl,” the note read. “Love you, Corinna”
She hoped she’d get to see Corinna before she left for Florida. Violet had two thousand dollars she’d saved up and the name of an investigator in Tampa. She knew the way to the bus station. She’d figure the rest out later.
twenty-one
RONNI
I had been staring at my laptop’s email screen for an hour, clicking on messages about a missing teenager in Idaho, Groupon deals for deep sea diving excursions, invitations to chat with live singles in the area (highly preferable to the dead ones), and the latest Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes. Anything to keep from releasing my book into cyberspace and the hands of Jennifer Meyer, who would hate it and laugh at me in the posh break room of her snooty publishing office. “Look what came from Alabama, y’all!” Jennifer would wave the printed manuscript at her New York colleagues, all of them Harvard summa cum smugness grads and swathed in Versace. “A kudzu-covered pile of steaming manure.”
“Not another one,” they’d chorus, yawning into their twenty dollar lattes.
Mr. Sobel had said, “All you have to do is email the file. Jennifer will get back to you within six weeks.” I was having a hard time letting go.
The stomach-grinding clock would start ticking as soon as I hit “Send.” I jumped up to pace the bedroom, kicking a stray Nike out of my way. I have to be at work in forty minutes. This is silly. I’ve read and re-read my manuscript a thousand times. I’ve done my best. I reached over and pushed my literary baby from its nest. Message sent successfully.