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As Rachel gazed at the keys, she recognized them for what they were, a sign of Gabe's guilt. Once again, she remembered the ugly scene between them. It was almost as if Gabe had been attacking himself instead of her. She shuddered inwardly as she wondered what other paths his course toward self-destruction might take.
With Edward trailing behind, she followed Ethan through the kitchen, which held a scarred pine farm table surrounded by four pressed-back oak chairs with cane seats. Simple muslin curtains draped the window, and a cupboard with punched tin doors stood opposite a white enamel Depressionera gas stove. As she inhaled the particular scent of old wood and generations of family meals, she wanted to weep.
Ethan led them out the back door and around the side of the cottage to an old single-car garage. One of the double set of doors dragged
in the dirt as he pulled it open. She followed him inside and saw a battered red Ford Escort hatchback of indeterminate vintage.
"This belongs to my sister-in-law. She has a new car, but she won't let anybody get rid of this one. Gabe said you could drive it for a couple of days."
Rachel remembered the scholarly-looking blond in the People magazine photo. This wasn't her idea of the kind of car a woman like Dr. Jane Darlington Bonner would drive, but she wasn't going to argue with her good fortune. With a sense of shock, she realized that she'd been given everything she needed: a job, shelter, transportation. And she owed every bit of it to Gabe Bonner and his guilt.
The fact that he would also snatch all this away the moment his guilt faded wasn't lost on her, and she knew she would have to move quickly. Somehow she had to get her hands on the Kennedy chest soon.
"Hasn't it occurred to you that I may run off with your sister-in-law's car, and she'll never see it again?"
He gazed distastefully at the battered Escort and handed her the keys. "We couldn't be that lucky."
She watched him walk away, then heard his car start. Edward came up behind her.
"Is he really giving us that car?"
"We're just borrowing it." Despite its condition, she thought it was the most beautiful vehicle she'd ever seen.
Edward looked toward the house. He scratched the back of his calf with the opposite sneaker and watched a bluebird fly from an old magnolia and settle on the peak of the tin roof. His eyes were filled with yearning. "Do we really get to stay here?"
She thought about the mysterious Kristy Brown. "For a little while. A woman is already living here, and I'm not sure how she's going to like having the two of us move in with her, so we'll have to see what happens."
Edward scowled. "Do you think she'll be mean like him?"
No need to ask who him was. "Nobody could be mean like him." She gave his cheek a quick peck. "Let's go get our things and put them away." Hand in hand, they crossed the small stretch of grass toward the house.
In addition to the living room and old-fashioned kitchen, the cottage had three bedrooms, one of them a small room that held a narrow iron bed and an old black Singer sewing machine. She put Edward there, despite his protests that he wanted to sleep with her.
Bonner's comment about turning Edward into a sissy stung. He didn't understand about Edward's illness and the effect their chaotic lifestyle was having on her son. Still, she knew Edward was immature for his age, and she hoped having his own room, even if it were only for a few weeks, would give him a little self-confidence.
She chose the other unoccupied bedroom for herself. It was simply furnished with a maple bed, a wedding-ring quilt, an oak chest of drawers with carved wooden drawer pulls, and an oval braided rug fraying a bit on the edges. Edward came in to watch her put her things away.
She had just finished when she heard the front door open. She shut her eyes for a moment to gather her strength, then touched Edward's arm. "Stay here, sweetheart, until I have a chance to introduce us."
A small, rather stern-looking woman stood just inside the front door. She appeared to be a few years older than Rachel, maybe in her very early thirties. She was modestly dressed in a tan blouse buttoned to her throat and a straight brown skirt. She wore no makeup, and her dark-brown hair hung straight to just below her jawline.
As Rachel drew nearer, she saw that the woman wasn't really homely at all, merely a bit drab. She had small, regular features and trim legs, but there was a severity about her that overshadowed those attributes and made her seem older than her smooth complexion indicated.
"Hello," Rachel said. "You must be Miss Brown."
"I'm Kristy." The woman wasn't unfriendly. Rather, Rachel received the impression of deep reserve.
Rachel realized her palms were sweating. As she tried to surreptitiously wipe them on the legs of her jeans, her index finger caught in one of the tears. She snatched it out before she did any more damage. "I'm really sorry about this. Reverend Bonner kept saying you wouldn't mind having us stay here, but…"
"It's all right." As Kristy walked into the living room, she set the paper sack she'd been carrying on the pine-blanket chest, next to the watering can of wildflowers, and placed her rather matronly black purse on one of the brown wicker chairs.
"It's not all right. I know this is an awful imposition, but I don't seem to have anywhere else to go at the moment."
"I understand."
Rachel regarded her doubtfully. Kristy Brown couldn't be pleased with the prospect of housing the most hated woman in Salvation, but her expression gave little away. "You know who I am, don't you?"
"You're Dwayne Snopes's widow." She straightened the quilt that lay over the couch with an efficiency of motion that Rachel guessed was characteristic of everything she did. Rachel noticed that her hands were small and graceful, her neat oval fingernails covered with clear polish.
