The Christmas Clock and A Song For My Mother - Kat Martin Page 0,3
down Main, then left on Maple Street. So far, she hadn't forgotten how to get there but the doctors had warned her it could happen.
Teddy took her hand as they started walking. She let him lead the way. She wondered if he had noticed the subtle changes coming over her and she suspected that he had. Lottie was a deeply religious woman. She was ready to meet her maker, though she would have preferred another path to glory. She would go without complaint but there was Teddy to consider.
Her husband had passed away eight years ago. Her sister and daughter were dead. She had some distant cousins but they were more feeble than she was and certainly not suitable parents for an eight-year-old boy. For the past two years, ever since she had learned of her condition, Lottie had been hoping to find an answer to the problem of Teddy's future.
Before it was too late, she had to find Teddy a home.
2
Sylvia was supposed to meet Mrs. Culver at one o’clock on Saturday to get a key to her new apartment. Arriving a little early, she drove around for a while, enjoying the feeling of homecoming, grateful that few changes had been made in the little town she since had moved away.
At a few minutes before one, she pulled up in front of the house on Maple Street. Driving a Volvo station wagon, Doris Culver pulled in right behind her. Syl watched her climb out of her car, thinking the woman looked exactly the way Syl remembered but thinner and paler, her gray-blond hair a little wispier.
“Welcome back,” Mrs. Culver said handing her the key. “I hope you like the place all right.”
Syl smiled. “It’ll be all mine. That’s a first for me—which means I’m sure to like it.”
Mrs. Culver insisted she call her Doris and also insisted on helping carry Syl’s belongings up to her newly acquired quarters above the garage.
“You can do whatever you want with it,” Doris said as they climbed the stairs. “Make it feel like it’s your own.”
“Thank you.”
“You don’t have any pets, do you?”
She had never had a pet. Why did it suddenly seem as if she had missed something? “I’m afraid not.”
One of Doris's blond eyebrows went up. “Well, small animals are okay, if you decide to get one”
Syl smiled, liking the notion. “Maybe I will.” Doris started back down the stairs to her house, a gray wood-framed home built in the thirties, then stopped and turned.
“Tomorrow's Sunday. I go to the Presbyterian Church over on Elm. Maybe you'd like to come with me?”
Syl hadn't been to church since she had left Dreyerville. Why not, she thought. She was making a new beginning. Maybe starting back to church was a good idea.
“Thank you, I'd like that very much.”
“Service starts at eleven.”
Syl just nodded. Already her life was changing. Or perhaps it was only changing back.
A shiver ran through her. When she had left Dreyerville, she'd been engaged to Joe Dixon. Four years ago, Mary had written to tell her that Joe had moved back to town. Syl knew he had spent the previous three years in prison. She also knew that she was the cause.
Her stomach tightened. Sooner or later, she was bound to run into him. She had no idea what he might say to her or what she might say to him but maybe facing Joe was part of the reason she had come back.
At least their meeting wouldn't be today and, with luck, probably not tomorrow since Joe wasn't much of a churchgoer or at least he hadn't been back then.
With her car unloaded, she closed the apartment door behind her and turned to survey her domain: living room, kitchen with eating area, two bedrooms, and a bath, more than enough room for her. The place was furnished, which was good because she had been living with her aunt and didn't own much except for her clothes and a few treasured personal possessions.
When she had first arrived in Chicago, she had stayed with Aunt Bess because she needed her aunt's help and support. Two years ago, the tables had turned and it was Bess who needed her. She had suffered a debilitating stroke; then six months ago, the woman who'd been far more a mother than Syl's own, had died at the age of fifty-two.
That was when Syl began thinking of home, imagining what it might be like to return. Then Mary had phoned and now she was here.