The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope - By Rhonda Riley Page 0,39

would ignore the trait. Or, in Addie’s case, the question of her father.

My mother was the only rupture in the acceptance of my lies about Addie. Momma was rarely on the farm alone with me and Addie. She didn’t drive. Usually, Daddy or Joe stayed after they drove her to the farm. Bertie was in high school by then and was too busy with her hair and her schoolmates for anything but the most necessary farm chores. Rita often tagged along, happy to shadow the “big girls,” as she referred to me and Addie.

But on this day it was only the three of us—Momma, Addie, and me. Daddy dropped Momma off at Mildred’s down the road and she had walked from there. She planned to stop on her way back and pick up some quilting scraps Mildred had prepared for her.

Momma and I were in the kitchen doing dishes. In the yard, Addie groomed Cole’s gray mare. The horse had somehow gotten loose, shown up that morning, and followed Addie in from the field. We could see them out the window over the sink.

Momma nodded her head. “She has a way with that horse.” She studied Addie a little longer. “I like Addie, but I can’t figure her. There’s something unusual about her,” Momma said, handing me a pot to dry.

I felt a jolt in my chest and belly and almost dropped the heavy pot.

She hadn’t taken her eyes off Addie since she first spoke. Outside, Addie mounted the mare bareback. “Her momma never told her who her real daddy is?”

I shook my head.

“Well, somebody in the McMurrough family was involved, from the looks of her. Doris might not have known she was already pregnant when she left with that Hardin boy.”

I didn’t speak. I didn’t breathe. She passed me another pot and the milk pitcher, washing the dishes by touch, keeping her eyes on Addie.

“Momma, she’s a good girl. A good person.”

She turned to me then, the same eyes Addie had. “I know, Evelyn. She’s got a good heart and a good head. She’s a good worker for you, too. I’m glad she’s here on the farm with you. And, in the long run, that’s all that matters.”

The tightness in my chest eased. I wanted to tell her the truth, to confess my lie. I wanted company.

Momma glanced out the window again. Addie headed for the porch, the mare followed. Momma turned back to me, her eyes moving over my face, judging me, weighing something. “I guess we all have our secrets.”

Hot, bright fear surged up my chest again, higher. My neck and ears burned. “Momma . . . Momma?” was all I could get out.

“Oh, Evelyn, don’t cry now.” She put her arm around me and kissed my temple. “I didn’t mean anything. It’s okay. You and Addie are both good girls. Everything’s fine.”

Addie opened the door and stomped the dirt off her shoes. She looked at us and I felt a very faint hum as she bent to brush the clay dust off her pant leg.

“I was just telling Evelyn what a fine job you girls are doing on the farm.” Momma took me by the shoulders and turned me toward Addie and the door. “Now, walk me down the hill to Mildred’s before it gets dark.”

The three of us strolled down the road in silence. The sky flushed velvet-pink above us as dusk settled. Birds called from the spring bud of the trees. I wanted Momma to say more but feared what she might say or know. Addie was quiet. I thought she sensed something and listened, too. I felt a twinge of guilt at my relief a few moments later when Momma latched Mildred’s wire gate behind her and waved good-bye.

Momma never said another thing like that about Addie. She was always good to Addie and comfortable enough around her, but I sometimes would catch her watching us, comparing. Addie had become a wedge between me and Momma. Not Addie herself, but the lies I told about her. I’d always been able to tell Momma everything. Not quite everything. Not Cole. But even that I felt I would have eventually told her—maybe years later, after I was married, with my own kids, and it would be something she would understand, maybe laugh about. She was a forgiving, understanding woman. To have to keep something so strange and so important from her seemed an affront to those cherished qualities. Not being able to confide in her