Page 71 of Lightning in a Mason Jar

June angled forward, closer. “It wasn’t always easy or smooth. I can’t count how many times I’ve wanted to let you know I understand the anger inside you. Winnie and I discussed it but ultimately decided we couldn’t risk telling you.”

“I wouldn’t have said a word.” She would have appreciated knowing she had something in common with June. But would she have let something slip in a childish mistake?

“I trust you, but this is a heavy secret to keep, and you already carried so much.” June’s gaze shifted to the growth chart etched in the doorframe. “Winnie wanted you to grow up free to move forward rather than be stuck in the past.”

“But you all have had to tote those same burdens ...”

“We didn’t have a choice,” June explained gently, her teacher voice coming through in her tone. “You do.”

2006

Mama had told me that marriage was work. And I believed her. But I hadn’t realized that while marriage was work, it shouldn’t be a chore. Loving Russell taught me the difference.

There were days I grieved that I couldn’t give him a child. Even if I’d been able to carry one to term, even if I hadn’t needed a hysterectomy,the lies in my past would have stopped me. Thea felt differently, and I respected that. I’d celebrated the birth of her son and daughter with Howard.

Russell and I found our own way to build a family, though, first by helping Libby with Keith. Then by bringing June into our home. Tutoring her through her GED and first year of college had been an ironic joy as I finally put to use all that high-priced classical education. Russell suggested I might be coming to peace with a blended identity of Eloise and Winnie.

And I thought he could be right.

We trusted each other’s insights that way. So when he telephoned that summer day asking me to drop everything and come up to the gas station, I hadn’t hesitated. I moved the pot of preserves off the burner, grabbed a sun hat from the hook by the door, and drove my truck right over.

Russell waited in front of the garage, both bay doors open and full with a pickup in one bay and a rusted-out station wagon on a lift in the other. He raised a broad hand, motioning for me to pull over on the side of the building with the bathrooms. Seeing him, I winged yet another prayer of thanksgiving that Russell had survived the fire. The nerve damage in his right arm had been worse than expected. He’d shifted from driving long hauls to managing the gas station and supervising the mechanics.

If he regretted the loss of a NASCAR career, he never showed it. He’d stayed true to his word about turning his full attention to growing his grandmother’s network with the help of me and my friends.

We’d found a safe home for a dementia patient who’d been abused by her adult son in a hurry to obtain his inheritance. There’d even been a housewife who’d gone “missing,” her cult-leader husband pleading on the news for her safe return. Except she’d been locked in the cellar with no heat for weeks for any behavior he deemed unacceptable.

We’d made a difference for people, and I finally felt like I was living with purpose.

I parked by the air pump and dumpster, but before I could turn off the engine, Russell slid into the passenger seat and pointed the air conditioner vent toward his forehead. I tried not to worry about the exhaustion on his face and how heavily he perspired. The damage to his lung was more apparent in the brutal Carolina summer.

He swiped a bandanna over his face, then the top of his head, his hair buzzed shorter these days as his hairline receded. “Thanks for coming over so fast.”

“What’s the scoop?”

“Well, this young mother—Yvonne—isn’t looking for a new identity. She said she just needs her station wagon repaired and a tank of gas, then she’ll be on her way to some place she heard is looking for waitresses.” He nodded toward the gas station “lounge,” where a woman puffed away on a cigarette in spite of theNo Smokingsigns I’d placed all around to help protect Russell’s respiratory system. “I should fix her busted radiator, give her the gas and a twenty, then send her on her way. But it looks like she’s living out of her station wagon, and she’s got this kid ...”

He rubbed along his collarbone absently, his eyes tracking toward the dock behind the garage. A scrap of a kid sat on the edge, dangling her feet in the water. Now I understood why Russell had stayed outside. Not because of the smoke, but because the mother let her child run around unsupervised.

Russell shifted his attention back to me. “I didn’t want to make a decision without running it by you. But I’m not sure how we can walk away. That kid was huddled under a blanket in the back seat of the station wagon with no working air conditioner, trying to make herself as small as possible. Those wide green eyes got to me.”

I didn’t hesitate.

“That’s all I need to know. How about I go talk to her so she doesn’t run off—or fall in—and could you give Thea a heads-up to start checking records to make sure that woman is really the child’s mother?” The internet had been a godsend when it came to verifying backgrounds,although with each year that passed, it made staying off the radar all the tougher. “Then Thea can find a job for her at the mill.”

We wouldn’t be able to count on the factory for a steady stream of jobs much longer. Paper mills had shrunk by over 50 percent in the past couple of decades, which left a substantial part of the Bent Oak population out of the workforce, reinventing themselves at only ten years shy of retirement.

But the fate of dying small-town America was a problem for another day.

Russell tunneled his hand under my hair and cupped the back of my neck. “Lord have mercy, I love you, woman.”

Then he kissed me, one of those familiar kisses that couples share after years together, when they know there will be more. A “goodbye for now, see you soon” kind of kiss.

“Love you too,” I said, then adjusted my hat and stepped out of the truck, hitching my canvas sack on my shoulder since I always carried snacks around. The kid might be hungry.

Taking my time as I picked my way along the weedy path, cockleburs sticking to my canvas shoes, I made plenty of noise to keep from spooking the child. Underfed arms and legs spiked out of a shorts set already a size too small.

Heavens to Betsy, she was a mess, with tangled red hair in need of shampoo and a good brushing. My hands itched to give her Pippi Longstocking braids to go with those freckles. And not because she reminded me in any way of how I’d envisioned my own daughter. I’d certainly never imagined my child would be sitting on a dock throwing rocks at passing boats and metal signs.

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