Sara had felt her body responding to the look Jeffrey had given her. There was something about this time of year that turned her into a completely different person.
She was actually fidgeting in her seat, thinking about Jeffrey touching her, the way his hands felt on her skin, when Cathy Linton jabbed her elbow into Sara’s ribs. Her mother’s expression said she knew exactly what was going through Sara’s mind at that moment and did not like it one bit. Cathy had crossed her arms angrily, her posture indicating she was resigning herself to the fact that Sara would go to hell for thinking about sex at the Primitive Baptist on Easter Sunday.
There was a prayer, then another hymn. After what seemed like an appropriate amount of time, Sara glanced over her shoulder to find Jeffrey again, only to see him with his head bent down to his chest as he slept. This was the problem with Jeffrey Tolliver, the idea of him was much better than the reality.
Tessa tapped her fingers on the table for Sara’s attention. “Sara?”
Sara put her hand to her chest, conscious that her heart was pounding the same way it had yesterday morning in church. “What?”
Tessa gave her a knowing look, but thankfully did not pursue it. “What did Jeb say?”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw you talking to him after the service,” Tessa said. “What did he say?”
Sara debated whether or not to lie. Finally, she answered, “He asked me out for lunch today, but I told him I was seeing you.”
“You could’ve cancelled.”
Sara shrugged. “We’re going out Wednesday night.”
Tessa did everything but clap her hands together.
“God,” Sara groaned. “What was I thinking?”
“Not about Jeffrey for a change,” Tessa answered. “Right?”
Sara took the menu from behind the napkin holder, though she hardly needed to look at it. She or some member of her family had eaten at the Grant Filling Station at least once a week since Sara was three years old, and the only change to the menu in all that time had been when Pete Wayne, the owner, had added peanut brittle to the dessert menu in honor of then president Jimmy Carter.
Tessa reached across the table, gently pushing down the menu. “You okay?”
“It’s that time of year again,” Sara said, rummaging around in her briefcase. She found the postcard and held it up.
Tessa did not take the card, so Sara read aloud from the back, “ ‘Why hast thou forsaken me?’ ” She put the card down on the table between them, waiting for Tessa’s response.
“From the Bible?” Tessa asked, though surely she knew.
Sara looked out the window, trying to compose herself. Suddenly, she stood up from the table, saying, “I need to go wash my hands.”
“Sara?”
She waved off Tessa’s concern, walking to the back of the diner, trying to hold herself together until she reached the bathroom. The door to the women’s room had stuck in the frame since the beginning of time, so Sara gave the handle a hard yank. Inside, the small black-and-white-tiled bathroom was cool and almost comforting. She leaned back against the wall, hands to her face, trying to wipe out the last few hours of her day. Jimmy Powell’s lab results still haunted her. Twelve years ago, while working her medical internship at Atlanta’s Grady Hospital, Sara had grown familiar with, if not accustomed to, death. Grady had the best ER in the Southeast, and Sara had seen her share of difficult traumas, from a kid who had swallowed a pack of razor blades to a teenage girl who had been given a clothes hanger abortion. These were horrible cases, but not altogether unexpected in such a large city.
Cases like Jimmy Powell’s coming through the children’s clinic hit Sara with the force of a wrecking ball. This would be one of the rare cases when Sara’s two jobs would converge. Jimmy Powell, who liked to watch college basketball and held one of the largest collections of Hot Wheels Sara had personally ever seen, would more than likely be dead within the next year.
Sara clipped her hair back into a loose ponytail as she waited for the sink to fill with cold water. She leaned over the sink, pausing at the sickly sweet smell coming from the basin. Pete had probably dumped vinegar down the drain to keep it from smelling sour. It was an old plumber’s trick, but Sara hated the smell of vinegar.
She held her breath as she leaned back over, splashing her face with