Page 61 of Always Meant for You
“I’ve got it.”
His movements are slower now.
I glance down at my outfit. Someone might comment on the frilly sleeves or the color of my shoes. But the clothes—the hat, the heels—anchor me. They remind me who I am and what I’m fighting to reclaim. I press my palms to my cream Chloé skirt. A ready-to-wear piece from more than twenty years ago. I found this beauty at a flea market under a heap of stained doilies and threadbare pillowcases. Its value and craftsmanship overlooked. Until I saw it.
I gaze at the cemetery and adjust my necklace. “Jamie, help me figure out my next step.”
I get my purse and join my father.
“You’re wearing the hat?” he asks.
“I don’t have a choice.” I adjust the brim. “It completes the outfit.”
He grunts again.
We make our way across the gravel, the crunch beneath our feet louder than it should be. The municipal building comes into view. It was the schoolhouse once, long before I was born. The bell tower still looms overhead, but the siding has peeled back from the years. Paint flakes dust the foundation. The windows sag.
Dad reaches for the door. Its hinges groan, sharp and sudden.
Inside, the air changes.
The place is packed.
Chairs scrape. Voices falter. Boots shift.
Then silence.
Everyone turns toward us.
No one expected me to come back, and no one seems particularly pleased that I did.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Maybe I was too tired or too shellshocked to put it together before, but standing here, it hits me.
The Castle King could be in this room.
On the long bus ride back, I’d wondered if Reba might have been the one to out me. The woman made it clear how she felt about me. But she hadn’t known I was from rural Illinois. I’d kept that part hidden. No paper trail either. The landlord never ran a credit check. He didn’t care as long as I paid my rent in cash.
I scan the familiar faces. As much as I want to know who ruined my life, I failed to consider one glaring piece of information. Everyone in this room knows me, but none of them know of Bella Mae.
She’s my secret.
And I can’t picture anyone here searching the internet for vintage French couture clothing. This town doesn’t live online. The old Young sisters didn’t have email when I worked for them. They wrote checks at the market and called the library to renew their books. Still, someone connected the dots.
“Will we be standing here all night letting in flies?” my father asks.
I swallow hard. “How about I wait in the truck?”
He watches me. A tiny twitch pulls at the corner of his mouth, so small it could be a smile or a wince from his joint pain.It’s hard to tell. But either way, it’s more of a reaction than I expected.
“I guess that’s up to you,” he says slowly. “But you leave now, Mabel Ruth, and you might spend the rest of your life wishing you’d stayed.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Call it a farmer’s hunch.”
Chapter Twelve
