The Secret of You and Me - Melissa Lenhardt Page 0,15

teeth, stripping down to my panties and crawling into my childhood bed.

How do you even go about reconciling the dead with the world they left behind? How do you do it with a man you hated?

I sat on the edge of the bed, holding my head in my hands. I knew what I had to do, but dreaded it. It was why I rarely drank.

Thirty minutes later I stood in the parking lot of Lynchfield High School, finishing a coconut cream kolache and coffee from Giesmann’s bakery, and staring at the faded red-and-gold lion painted on the side of the detached gym. Like Ray’s house, nothing much had changed at the high school. It had seen better days when I was there. Today it fit squarely in the trendy midcentury modern style: a building Brooklyn hipsters would fight to save and gentrify. Lynchfield wasn’t having it; I’d driven past the construction site for the new high school on the way into town.

With resignation, I started the fitness app on my phone, ran out of the parking lot and turned toward downtown. I hated running. Hated it. Ten-mile runs at the crack of dawn in boot camp will turn you off of a thing damn quick. But, it was a solid fallback workout when I didn’t have a gym or sparring partner available. I’d learned long ago I could survive anything for an hour.

Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I ran through the neighborhoods around the edge of town, letting the rhythm of my footfalls focus my mind on what I needed to do to get out of Lynchfield as soon as possible. Meeting with Charlie was the first step, finding Ray’s papers and diving into his financials was the second. Ray had never been wealthy, but he’d made ends meet well enough for the three of us. He hadn’t given me a dime since I left, and Mary had been married almost the entire time. Ray was single, and apparently didn’t put any money back into the house or barn, or only put the bare minimum. There was a better chance he was the millionaire next door than loaded down with debt. Or at least I hoped.

I didn’t want his money, though. If there was anything left over, I’d give it to Hunter and Madison. Start a college account for them. Maybe that would put me back on Mary’s good side, though I doubted it.

I checked my fitness tracker. Five miles in thirty-five minutes. One mile per beer, but I still hadn’t accounted for the whiskey. I looked at the sign at the end of the road in front of me. Lynchfield Country Club. Half mile to the club, a half mile back and a half mile to the high school. That would be enough penance for one day.

Large brick houses with expansive, perfectly manicured lawns lined the road. I cataloged the occupants as I ran, or at least the residents the last time I was here: Lawsons, Hoovers, Richardsons, Jenkinses and Wyatts on the left. The Tollesons, McGuires, Stoppers, Lynches and Russells on the right. I sprinted past the Wyatts and Russells, the last houses on the street before the country club, and the two reasons I’d spent every summer of my childhood at Lynchfield Country Club.

I stopped in the parking lot, put my hands on my hips to catch my breath, and heard the familiar sounds of summer. Birds chirping from the limbs of the majestic oak trees surrounding the clubhouse. The choo-choo-choo of sprinklers watering the driving range. A lawn mower in the distance. The thwack of a driver hitting a golf ball off the first tee. The thump of a tennis ball being volleyed. I walked toward the tennis clubhouse, wondering if Coach Cress would remember me, or if he was even still around.

Goose bumps popped up on my arms as air-conditioning hit my sweaty body. The teenage girl behind the counter glanced up from her phone, did a double take when she realized she didn’t know me and set the phone down. “Can I help you?”

“Is Coach Cress here?”

“He died last year.”

“Oh.”

“Had a stroke, right on the court.”

I resisted the urge to say, At least he died doing what he loved, but barely.

The tennis clubhouse hadn’t changed much. The main room held a few racks of tennis clothes, shelves of balls next to rackets hanging on hooks on one wall, a half wall of shoes next to two doors leading to the locker rooms.