Beneath a Southern Sky - By Deborah Raney Page 0,32
his head through the doorway of the office, looking contrite and boyish in spite of his day-old beard.
“Good morning, Daria.” He gave her a quick smile and greeted her as though he was seeing her for the first time that morning. Just as quickly he was out the back door again.
“Good morning, Cole.” She waved to the empty air, baffled by his sudden change of mood.
She sighed heavily, dumped the dregs of her coffee in the sink, and headed back to the kennel to feed the dogs. The conversation she’d just had with Carla gnawed at her. The things Carla had related about the way Bridgette Hunter died didn’t fit with the information Cole had given her. She didn’t like the way that fact made her feel.
When Daria went to pick Natalie up at her parents’ house that night, she asked her mother about the rumor concerning Bridgette Hunter.
“Yes, I did hear that she committed suicide. But you know how people in this town talk, Daria.”
“Mom! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Margo perched on a high barstool at the kitchen counter where Daria was seated. She gave her daughter a searching look. “Why, would it have mattered, Daria?”
“I don’t know. It’s just—I don’t know, it just seems strange. Cole is so easygoing and happy all the time. It just doesn’t fit.” She picked up a pencil from the counter and started scribbling on a scrap of paper, retracing her lines over and over until the lead shone against the white page. “You don’t know why, do you?”
“Why she killed herself?”
Daria nodded, not looking up.
“Honey, who knows why anyone ever does something like that?” A strange timbre had come into her voice, the tone that told her that her mother understood more than Daria had intended to reveal. “This really has you upset, doesn’t it?” Margo said.
“I-I was just surprised, that’s all.”
“Look at me, Daria.”
Daria lifted her head, trying not to look as sheepish as she felt.
“You really like Dr. Hunter, don’t you?”
She nodded. “I do, Mom. Is that awful?”
“Honey, why would that be awful?”
“Well, for starters he’s my boss. And—” The lump in her throat took her by surprise, and she felt tears well behind her eyelids. “Mom, Nate’s only been gone a little more than a year. I-I feel like such a traitor.”
Margo put a warm hand over Daria’s. “Daria Lynn Haydon, what are you talking about?”
Daria smiled, but her mother seemed not to notice her subconscious use of Daria’s maiden name. “You have just been through the worst year of your life. It’s about time you had some happiness. I’m thrilled for you!”
“Mom, Mom, slow down. It’s not like he’s asked me out or anything.”
The wind went out of her mother’s sails a bit. “I think it would be wonderful if he did. And I don’t want to hear any more of this guilt business. You know Nate would have wanted you to go on with your life. Especially for Nattie’s sake.”
Daria pushed the pencil and paper away and scooted her stool back from the counter. She cleared her throat. “Speaking of Nattie, if I don’t wake her up now, I’ll never get her down tonight.”
She looked at her mother, who seemed deep in thought. Reaching out, she put a hand on Margo’s arm. “Thanks, Mom. For everything.”
That night she lay in bed and thought about what her mother had said, that it would be wonderful if Cole asked her out. Part of her was relieved to have talked to her mother. A larger part of her was sorry that she’d revealed her secret desire to anyone. Especially since the revelation of his dark past left her unsure of who Colson Hunter really was.
Nine
Cole drove his pickup along the dusty country road toward home.
He’d congratulated himself too quickly for shaking off the depression that the anniversary of Bridgette’s death always seemed to bring. A busy day at the clinic, with a harrowing but successful emergency surgery thrown in for good measure, had helped keep his mind off the dark memories that begged his attention. But now, with the day behind him, the dusk taking over the sky, and an empty house to go home to, the blanket of oppression settled over him again.
This was the fifth bleak anniversary he’d marked, and though none had been as bad as the first, he wondered how many years would pass before he could look at this day as any other. Ten years? Fifteen? What was the magic number?