that sold horse trailers. She motored by the First Horseman’s Bank of Jubilee, Farmers’ Insurance, and a newspaper office called the Daily Cutter.
She’d never lived in a small town—well, not that she could remember. With her hands clutched on the steering wheel, she contemplated the dimensions of where she found herself. This place pushed against every boundary of the lifestyle she’d always lived.
And not in a good way.
Anxiety secreted a knot in her stomach and she thought of the way oysters made pearls, building a protective layer inside against an invading grain of sand.
What in the hell was she doing here?
You had nowhere else to go.
That wasn’t entirely true. She could have moved to Argentina, started a new life in a new country, close to her mother and Ignacio. But that seemed even more foreign and faraway than Jubilee. Besides, she felt like a third thumb around her mother and her new husband.
What if no one here liked her? What if she didn’t like them? Maybe she should turn north and just keep on driving until she reached the safety of the Chicago city limits.
And then do what? She’d already spent three months pounding the pavement, looking for a job she knew she was not going to get. Destiny had friends in high places. She had nowhere to stay. She’d already worn out her welcome on her friend Abby’s couch after she’d been forced to give up her apartment because she couldn’t make rent. This was it. Her new life.
Ugh.
She shook her head and let her gaze drift over her surroundings once more. Up ahead lay a restaurant called the Mesquite Spit. She could smell steaks grilling even through the rolled-up window of her car. Pickup trucks and SUVs jammed the parking lot, but it didn’t look like the kind of place that put a high premium on quality lettuce, so she kept driving.
And then she saw the sign.
“Oak Hill Cemetery ½ Mile . ”
Oak Hill was where they’d buried Dutch.
Impulsively, she turned, following where the sign pointed, and took the road running up the hill behind the Mesquite Spit.
A wispy bank of gray clouds played across a sky glazed with the purple-pearl sheen of impending twilight. The temperature was sluggish, neither hot nor cold, midrange and noncommittal. Sixty-five, Mariah guessed, until she parked the car beside a maintenance shed and got out. The wind tickled her hair. Sixty, she recalculated, and the dampish air carried the musky smell of composting leaves mingling with the sharp, smoky scent of burning mesquite.
The cemetery wasn’t big, but it was old. Oaks, pecans, and elm trees so large that two people joining hands couldn’t reach around them, sheltered the plots. The burial ground was laid out in a simple grid pattern on the flat of the hilltop.
Where to start her search?
Look for a freshly turned grave.
A prickling sensation tickled the back of her neck as her feet processed the rows.
She found it with surprising ease, the rich scent of loam leading her to the spot. No headstone yet. Too soon for that. But there was a cardboard placard attached to a stake and numerous flower arrangements.
R ANDOLPH “D UTCH ” C ALLAHAN
T HE GREATEST CUTTER WHO EVER LIVED .
As she stood there, in the waning sunlight, looking at her estranged father’s grave, Mariah’s emotions formed a mosaic snapshot. Crystal clear. A fractured monochrome of bands and circles, dots and triangles. Black. White. Gray. The primary sensation was one of deep, unabated loss.
“Dutch,” she whispered. “I hardly knew you. Why does it hurt so damn much?” It wasn’t so much the pain of losing him, but of never having him. An unrequited love, if you will. Loving someone who couldn’t love you back.
One of the few memories she had of her father was when he’d taken her riding. She’d been quite small, three or four at most, and the main thing she recalled about the day was sitting in the saddle with him. Her back pressed against his strong chest, his ropy arms around
She’d never lived in a small town—well, not that she could remember. With her hands clutched on the steering wheel, she contemplated the dimensions of where she found herself. This place pushed against every boundary of the lifestyle she’d always lived.
And not in a good way.
Anxiety secreted a knot in her stomach and she thought of the way oysters made pearls, building a protective layer inside against an invading grain of sand.
What in the hell was she doing here?
You had nowhere else to go.
That wasn’t entirely true. She could have moved to Argentina, started a new life in a new country, close to her mother and Ignacio. But that seemed even more foreign and faraway than Jubilee. Besides, she felt like a third thumb around her mother and her new husband.
What if no one here liked her? What if she didn’t like them? Maybe she should turn north and just keep on driving until she reached the safety of the Chicago city limits.
And then do what? She’d already spent three months pounding the pavement, looking for a job she knew she was not going to get. Destiny had friends in high places. She had nowhere to stay. She’d already worn out her welcome on her friend Abby’s couch after she’d been forced to give up her apartment because she couldn’t make rent. This was it. Her new life.
Ugh.
She shook her head and let her gaze drift over her surroundings once more. Up ahead lay a restaurant called the Mesquite Spit. She could smell steaks grilling even through the rolled-up window of her car. Pickup trucks and SUVs jammed the parking lot, but it didn’t look like the kind of place that put a high premium on quality lettuce, so she kept driving.
And then she saw the sign.
“Oak Hill Cemetery ½ Mile . ”
Oak Hill was where they’d buried Dutch.
Impulsively, she turned, following where the sign pointed, and took the road running up the hill behind the Mesquite Spit.
A wispy bank of gray clouds played across a sky glazed with the purple-pearl sheen of impending twilight. The temperature was sluggish, neither hot nor cold, midrange and noncommittal. Sixty-five, Mariah guessed, until she parked the car beside a maintenance shed and got out. The wind tickled her hair. Sixty, she recalculated, and the dampish air carried the musky smell of composting leaves mingling with the sharp, smoky scent of burning mesquite.
The cemetery wasn’t big, but it was old. Oaks, pecans, and elm trees so large that two people joining hands couldn’t reach around them, sheltered the plots. The burial ground was laid out in a simple grid pattern on the flat of the hilltop.
Where to start her search?
Look for a freshly turned grave.
A prickling sensation tickled the back of her neck as her feet processed the rows.
She found it with surprising ease, the rich scent of loam leading her to the spot. No headstone yet. Too soon for that. But there was a cardboard placard attached to a stake and numerous flower arrangements.
R ANDOLPH “D UTCH ” C ALLAHAN
T HE GREATEST CUTTER WHO EVER LIVED .
As she stood there, in the waning sunlight, looking at her estranged father’s grave, Mariah’s emotions formed a mosaic snapshot. Crystal clear. A fractured monochrome of bands and circles, dots and triangles. Black. White. Gray. The primary sensation was one of deep, unabated loss.
“Dutch,” she whispered. “I hardly knew you. Why does it hurt so damn much?” It wasn’t so much the pain of losing him, but of never having him. An unrequited love, if you will. Loving someone who couldn’t love you back.
One of the few memories she had of her father was when he’d taken her riding. She’d been quite small, three or four at most, and the main thing she recalled about the day was sitting in the saddle with him. Her back pressed against his strong chest, his ropy arms around
Similar Books
