The Memory House. Линда Гуднайт

      “You checked that, I guess.”

      “First thing this morning. Blew it out as good as I could. Still nothing.”

      “Did she overheat?”

      “No, sir. Just quit. The battery is old. It’s probably bad.”

      “Let’s have a look.”

      Eli stashed his remaining coffee on the floorboard of the Dodge. Then he lifted the hood and braced it open with a stick, amused and interested that a physics teacher had offered to do mechanic work. “Where did you learn about cars?”

      “Hobby. When I was a kid, we didn’t have diddly. The only way I could own a vehicle was to rebuild one I’d bought myself. So I did.”

      Eli huffed softly. “Sounds familiar.” Though he’d once had the finest vehicles, a beautiful home, a good family. And he’d thrown them all away on stupid choices.

      He reached into the toolbox for an end wrench and tapped at the battery terminals. “Corroded,” he said with disgust. Like his life. He stuck the wrench in his shirt pocket while he wrestled the cable heads loose.

      Bob leaned in for a look. “I think you’ve found your problem. They need a good cleaning, but a wipe down and a jump should get you back on the road.”

      Eli scrubbed away at the terminals, using a T-shirt from his duffel bag. “Best I can do out here.”

      Bob hooked up the jumper cables while Eli slipped into the driver’s seat and turned the key. After a few feeble grinds, the engine caught and started. Black smoke curled out the tailpipe as Bob slammed the hood and came around to the driver-side window.

      “You have that checked first chance you get.”

      “Sure.” When money grows on trees. “What do I owe you?”

      “Not a thin dime. Pay it forward. That’s all I ask.”

      Eli gave a solemn nod. “Thank you, sir.”

      “If you get back this direction, stop in and say hello. If you see this Accord in the lot, we’re here.”

      “Will do.” Not likely.

      Then, with the morning breeze blowing in his face, Eli aimed the Dodge toward town, Opal Kimble and a piece of the past he’d never intended to resurrect.

      The town of Honey Ridge was waking up as the old Dodge wheezed and rattled down the double row of buildings that composed the main street and led to a central square. The concrete was darkened from last night’s rain.

      A woman washing the display window of Hallie’s Gifts and Cards paused, paper towel in hand to watch him pass. Her stare gave Eli a crawly feeling. He didn’t want to attract attention, here or anywhere.

      A man outside the post office hoisted the flag though not a breath of air stirred. Many of the buildings were from another time but neat and well kept, one of them marked with the date 1884 and painted in colorful murals of the past.

      As he passed a doughnut shop, the scent floated through his open window. His belly growled.

      Eli fished in his jacket pocket for the scrap of paper and the directions Opal had given. Two blocks east of the stoplight he turned down Rosemary Lane, crawling along until he spotted a blue-frame house with peeling paint, an overgrown lawn and two green metal chairs on the front porch. Opal’s house.

      The Dodge rattled to a stop at the end of a cracked driveway where a child’s plastic motorcycle lay on its side next to the garage. Eli’s empty belly cramped. His palms grew wet against the steering wheel.

      What was he doing here? Every cell in his body urged him to turn tail and run, but for once in his life he didn’t. Couldn’t. He’d done very few responsible things in his thirty-six years, but this was different. He still couldn’t believe the horrible news. Sweet, giggly Mindy who’d fancied herself in love with him was dead—and she’d left behind a child.

      With nerves gnawing a hole in his gut, he got out of the car, crossed the yard and stepped quietly onto the porch. It was early. If the car hadn’t broken down he’d have arrived last night. He didn’t see a light. Was Opal still asleep? Maybe he should come back later.

      Coward, a voice inside his head whispered.

      He released a gust of breath, wiped his sweaty hands down his jeans and reached for the knocker. His shaky hand wouldn’t quite take hold of the tarnished brass. He hovered there, as if the ordinary knocker had the power to change his life. Maybe he should forget this and head back to Nashville, keep trying to find permanent work. The boy never needed to know him. The boy. His son.

      He pivoted to leave but stopped in a half-turn, wrestling with his conscience.

      Before he could conquer the demons fighting inside his head, the scarred wooden door scraped open, catching on the threshold as if the wood had swollen with recent rain. An old woman with curly white hair and a wrinkled, pinched face leaned on a cane as she peered out at him.

      Eli swallowed. “Opal Kimble?”

      “Are you Eli?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      She pushed the storm door open. “About time.”

      He entered the house where the scent of food battled with the musty smell of age. Everything about the room was old. Old furniture. A big, boxy television on a roller cart cluttered with papers. Faded photos on the wall of people from another era. He thought of the inn he’d recently left and couldn’t help comparing the two houses. Both were old, filled with history, and yet Julia’s home was bright and inviting.

      “Sit.”

      Accustomed to taking orders, he complied.

      “You want coffee?”

      “Don’t trouble yourself.”

      The old woman ignored his statement and left the room, returning with two mugs and a plate of raisin bread. “I figure you haven’t had breakfast this early.”

      “No, ma’am.”

      “Help yourself.”

      “Thank you.” He required significant restraint to keep from wolfing down the bread like a wild animal. Careful to sip the scalding coffee between bites, he managed to eat without humiliating himself. The coffee was bitter compared to Julia’s. He didn’t care. He’d learned the hard way not to complain.

      “Go on and eat all that bread,” the old woman said. “The boy doesn’t like raisins, and I’ve had my fill.”

      The boy. The reason he’d come. She’d want money—he was certain of that after seeing her living conditions.

      He could feel her watching him so he ate one more slice and stopped, though he could have eaten the entire loaf and still had room for breakfast.

      When he’d finished, he sat back in the faded chair and waited, feeling a little better now that he’d had nourishment. She’d summoned him, demanded he come. Let her carry the conversation.

      Opal, now seated across from him in a green lift-recliner, leaned forward, her fingers curled around the cane like bird claws. “You knew about the boy?”

      “Mindy wrote to me.”

      “You didn’t write back.”

      “I thought it was for the best.” He lifted his palms in a helpless gesture. “Under the circumstances.”

      “She said he’s your son.”

      “He could be.” The news of Mindy’s pregnancy, received in a letter not long after his incarceration, had hit him like a ton of bricks. He’d felt like the lowlife he’d become. He and Mindy had only been together one long, hot summer before the trial that changed everything, and he’d always been cautious about relationships. But nothing was foolproof.