Page 40 of Sterling Stone

“I don’t want to talk about him.” I keep my head low and my voice even lower as I pause, hugging the pillow to my chest like a shield.

What do I even say about Stone Sylver? He kissed me. I’m confuddled by him.

When I turn in her direction, I don’t look up at my gracious aunt but plop onto the cushion, feeling the sudden dip in the worn stuffing.

Still holding the pillow tight to my chest, I whisper, “Did you know he was the sheriff?”

Of course she knew. She probably told me at one time, but I hadn’t connected the dots. Hadn’t known that Stone Sylver, small town sheriff, was Samson Superman, sweet talker, silent dancer, skilled kisser.

Aunt Trudy steps closer to me. Her spicy patchouli scent invades my nose, and I close my eyes. Funny how a scent can bring back a memory.

Aunt Trudy holding me as I silently cried as a child, some nights not even aware I’d had a nightmare.

Aunt Trudy fixing my hair in braids, a multitude of bow-shaped barrettes to keep them in place.

Aunt Trudy tapping the sharp-scented oil against my wrists before I graduated from high school, smiling in the mirror from behind me, telling me Mama would be proud, when I’d long forgotten my mother and was in a rebellious stage of unforgiveness.

“Baby,” Aunt Trudy says softly. No sass, just weight in the word. “I know what police can be like. Lord knows I’ve seen enough to last me a lifetime.” She moves closer and takes a seat beside me on the couch, forcing me to edge over to accommodate her.

“And I know why your hackles go up. You grew up learning cops meant trouble, and half the time they did.”

She reaches for my hand and tugs it into her lap while I continue to clutch the pillow against my belly.

“But don’t go taking all that pain and slapping it on one man just because he wears a badge.”

Trudy pauses, a classic move from her, letting the truth settle.

“That boy didn’t put your mama in jail. He didn’t leave you and your sisters lost. Don’t let hurt that you didn’t ask for decide who he is before you’ve even had a chance to know him.”

My own pause follows her words, reflecting that she’s right. She’s always right, and I’ve always strived to be as open and mindful as her. She sees it from both sides, and her wisdom calls out assumptions that stop being proactive and start being prejudices.

But I’m never quite as good as Trudy.

“My mother killed your brother,” I whisper, keeping my head bowed. Aunt Trudy doesn’t need the reminder of what Mama did . . . and yet . . . “How do you so easily forgive?”

Aunt Trudy pats the top of my hand in her lap, humming again.

“Forgiveness.” She pauses. “Such a burden to bear when it should set you free.”

I glance over my shoulder at her, but Aunt Trudy is staring at the wall on the opposite side of the room.

“My brother also beat your mother,” she says quietly, as if I need the reminder of the devil he’d been. Sadness lingers in her voice, exemplifying the difference in siblings.

One sweet and kind, forgiving and accepting. The other angry at the world, assuming he was owed everything, including obedience from Mama.

When he went for one of my sisters, so innocent and fragile, but crying, annoying him, Mama took the law that had failed her into her own hands.

“The law wasn’t on her side.” It’s more of a statement. More declaration than a necessary reminder neither of us needs.

“Didn’t give her the right to decide what was just.”

Trudy squeezes the hand she holds, triggering another memory. She was the first to show me true affection. Not that Mama didn’t occasionally offer a hug, but as I grew older, her attention grew more distant, sparing embraces only for my younger sisters.

“Good people can make bad decisions all the time,” Aunt Trudy states. “Just like bad people make wrong ones thinking they’re doing right.”

Aunt Trudy and I both remain quiet, and the current climate of the world flashes through my thoughts. I strive to be open-minded but I’m also mindful that the rules are not equal everywhere.

“Life can be difficult some days. Hard at times. Sometimes things don’t make any sense, but hate breeds hate, and you cannot let that happen. In between the crooked cracks is light, and that’s where I choose to focus.”