Contents ( 66)
- Cover
- Books by Valerie Fraser Luesse
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication
- Contents
- Map of Florida
- 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
- thirty-eight
- thirty-nine
- forty
- forty-one
- forty-two
- forty-three
- forty-four
- forty-five
- forty-six
- forty-seven
- forty-eight
- forty-nine
- fifty
- fifty-one
- Epilogue
- Keep Reading for a Preview of Valerie Luesse’s Next Book!
- Prologue
- one
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Back Ads
- Back Cover
As sound kept flowing from the doctor’s mouth, Peyton’s mother reached over and took his hand as if she knew he was adrift and instinctively offered an anchor. What was happening in this room, now a matter-of-fact occurrence, would’ve seemed unthinkable just yesterday—just this morning. It was unthinkable still.
Peyton hovered outside the waiting room, where the Cabots couldn’t see him, and listened. Once concern for his mother broke through the fog in his brain, he had asked her to explain everything the doctor said and then volunteered to update the family himself. Just the thought of dealing with them, he knew, was too much for her right now. As he had done earlier that day on his grandparents’ porch, Peyton stood still in the hospital corridor and tuned in to one voice after another.
Aunt Camille: “Did you see that bunch o’ rednecks that looked in here like they wanted a seat?”
Aunt Charlotte: “Lucky we fill up the waiting room. Can you even imagine being cooped up in here with white trash?”
Uncle Julian: “Do you finally see, Daddy, why you cannot afford to have Marshall in charge of the family holdings?”
Granddaddy Cabot: “There’s no such thing as the family holdings, Julian. They’re all my holdings. I earned them, I own them, and I’ll direct them as I see fit.”
Grandmother Cabot: “Do you think, George, we should perhaps resume our lovely picnic and await word at the house? There doesn’t seem to be anything we can do here, and we’d all be so much more comfortable on the porch.”
Peyton felt a tingly wave that started at the base of his spine and quickly moved up, all the way to his temples. He had felt it only once before in his life—right before lightning struck a tree by the stadium during a Georgia game. As the lightning cracked and a tall pine split apart with a deafening pop, his father, in one swift motion, had dropped the Coke and hot dog he was holding and wrapped his arms protectively around Peyton. It was a memory he hadn’t revisited in ages, but the tingling brought it back. He stepped inside the waiting room just in time to see his grandfather wince, reach for his head, and slump over.
Peyton’s grandmother looked down in horror. Without touching her husband, who had fallen into her lap, she repeated over and over, in an eerily calm voice, “George? George, dear, get up. George, do get up . . .”
three
They buried Peyton’s grandfather on a rainy afternoon, the Monday after Easter. Tuesday morning, his father’s law office called to say that Uncle Julian had just been there, urging the partners to “expedite the will.” Peyton still couldn’t believe it. They had gone from a family picnic to a hospital to a funeral, but the death they half expected hadn’t happened, while one they never saw coming delivered a blow.