Sorrow Road (Bell Elkins #5) - Julia Keller Page 0,27

so. But there was a lot that mothers never found out about, unless a night ended in disaster. Bell knew that. Lecturing about dangerous things was one of those activities that mothers were hardwired to do, effective or not. “Turns out,” Bell added, “Darlene probably had an alcohol problem going way back to law school. Or maybe before. I don’t know. She kept it hidden. And kept herself under control.”

“Until last night.”

“Until last night.” Bell nodded.

More silence.

“Do you see much of Aunt Shirley?” Carla asked.

“Not as much as I’d like.” Shirley was Bell’s older sister. She had returned to Acker’s Gap after serving a long prison sentence for an act of violence. The violence was thoroughly justified, but the law didn’t see it that way. Now she lived two counties away with her boyfriend, an aspiring songwriter named Bobo Bolland. She worked as a clerk in an auto parts store. She hated it but, as she’d once told Bell and Carla when the three of them were having dinner, you were supposed to hate it; it’s when you stopped hating that kind of job, when you settled into it without a fight, that you needed to start worrying.

“She posts a lot of funny stuff on Facebook,” Carla said. “Bobo has a fan page.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. He’s got a bunch of Likes.” Carla checked out the living room with her gaze, as if she needed to make sure it was still the place she remembered: fireplace, picture window, bookshelves, coffee table. Then her eyes came back around to her mother.

“How’s Clay?” Carla asked.

This was tricky, and so Bell hesitated. Carla knew all about her relationship with Clay Meckling. That wasn’t the tricky part. The tricky part was that Bell could not answer Carla’s question—because she had not spoken to Clay in a week and a half. Not since the moment when her lover had caught her so completely by surprise, when he had startled her so profoundly that she had been forced to wonder: Who was the real Clay Meckling? Was it the gentle good man with whom she had fallen in love four years ago—or was it the man who had stood before her in that shattering moment, having just revealed a part of himself that she had never suspected could live inside him, amidst all the decency and casual gallantry?

“He’s fine,” Bell said. She would tell her the truth later—or part of the truth, anyway. As much as Carla needed to know. Too much truth could be as bad as too little.

Jesus, Bell thought wryly. And I wonder where Carla learned about evasiveness and the artful deployment of partial facts.

Carla’s voice was apprehensive. “And he’ll be okay with—with me, like, living here again? I mean, I won’t be in the way or…”

“Sweetie.” Bell’s eyes blazed with conviction. “This is your home. Your home. That’s the only thing that matters, okay? So it doesn’t matter who else is in my life. Doesn’t matter how long you’ve been gone. This place will always be here—right here—waiting for you. This house—and me. Clear?”

“Clear.” The word sounded muddy. Carla needed to get something out of her throat. “Clear,” she repeated. Stronger this time.

“Good,” Bell said, reaching out and giving Carla’s knee a light double-pat at the same time she said it, as if to seal the deal. “You remember that.”

“Mind if I take my stuff upstairs?”

“’Course not.”

They rose in unison. There was so much more Bell wanted to ask her, so many questions she had about the reason for Carla’s return and the source of her daughter’s emotional tumult—but she reminded herself that she could not do it all at once. She’d have to bide her time. Pick her spots.

There would have to be a few house rules. Some structure. All of that could be worked out in the days to come.

“So I’ll see you later,” Carla said.

“At dinner. Chicken okay?”

“Sure.” Her daughter turned and started trudging toward the staircase. She retrieved her backpack from its spot by the door. She didn’t sling it over her shoulder. She held it at her side by the thick strap, so that it dangled like a hunter’s bounty.

“Hey. One more thing.” Bell had to speak. Their entire conversation had felt stilted, unnatural; just a little while ago Carla had been sobbing in her arms. Now she was nonchalant. The change was jarring. Something was wrong. Just because Carla would not tell her what it was did not mean that it wasn’t important. “The offer stands, okay?” Bell said.