Page 127 of Saving Grace

“Well now, didn’t you grow into a fine-looking woman.” She studies me over. I fight off a blush. No matter how hard I try, I will never have the Ruby Rawlins confidence. “And now.” She nods behind me. “Is this your husband?”

Mack steps in behind me. Leaning around he offers her a hand. “Mack. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Barton.”

“He’s not my husband,” I mutter.

She rears back playfully as if slapped. “Honey, you’ve got to lock this one down. And fast. Man in a hat. Bet he has a horse, too.” Her face is ridiculous. Her curly grey hair is twisted into a floral bandanna on her head, her over-rouged cheeks pop with her toothy grin. I can’t help but chuckle. The woman has a point. But I’m not here for love life advice, so I glance around the street before asking, “Where’s Mama, Mrs. Barton?”

Her face falls to seriousness. “Oh honey, she left. They’d been fighting on and off for years after you went. After their quick getaway out west, your mother packed up her things and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since. Good for her, if you ask me.”

“Oh” is all I can say.

She left him. After decades of being the dutiful housewife and mother, she packed up and walked away.

“Where can I find her, then?” I ask.

“She lives over on the other side of the river now. Westwood Village, Betty from bingo told me. Working somewhere over there. Maybe at the college... At least, I think that’s what Betty said? Good luck, honey.”

“Thank you.”

She nods and winks at Mack before turning back to her plants.

“I’ll get an Uber,” Mack says, tapping on his phone already.

“Westwood...” I mutter to myself. “Central Penn is over there.”

“She’s teaching there?” Mack asks, sliding his phone into the back pocket of his Wranglers.

“I wouldn’t think so.”

The Uber arrives five minutes later. We zip through the burbs, over the river, and head north for Westwood Village. But it’s gated, and we can’t get in.

“Try the college,” I say, hanging onto the back of the driver’s seat. A few minutes later, we wind through campus roads. Driving past the huge triangle building, I can’t wait any longer.

“Stop! Here, please.” I burst from the back door and stalk my way across the concrete parking lot, homing in on the cream-colored three-story building. The administration lady startles as I rush through the doors.

“Hi, are you alright?” she asks.

“I’m looking for someone. Helena Weston.”

“Does she go here?” The lady raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t know.” I know what she’s going to say.

“I’m sorry, I can’t give out student or staff information. You can’t text or call?”

“I—” I straighten. “I don’t have her number.”

She wouldn’t have mine. I never gave her my new number when I replaced my phone after a year of being in Mississippi. Never imagined I would ever call her again. Not after Mack smashed that one, either. The glass doors swish, and I can tell it’s him. The air around me changes as he comes to stand behind me. My chin wobbles. I should have tried harder. Should have kept her updated, even if I never got a reply. Should have held up my end of the communication.

A hot tear streaks down my cheek as students pour from a room down the hall. I swipe it away. “You sure you can’t help me? I’m trying to find—” My voice cracks. My shoulders are shaking, but warm hands come to rest over them.

“As I said?—”

“She’s my mama. I’m trying to find my mother...” The words fade out.

A huffing sound echoes through the foyer, and I feel Mack turn toward it.

“Gracie?” a soft, so very familiar, voice gasps.

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