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Amelia: I think you gave them to me a while back.
Evie: There’s an extra mailbox key hanging on a hook next to the front door. It’s blue.
Evie: Check the box okay.
Evie: I get this weird feeling that something’s not right.
Amelia: I’m sure everything’s fine.
Evie: Let me know.
Amelia: Soon as I swing by.
The McAlister home’s a few miles down the road from the church. We stop at a gated community guardhouse for the few seconds it takes a guard to salute Patrick and wave us through. We motor past gated estates with expansive lawns, not that many trees, each lot situated on twenty or so acres circling around Lake Grapevine.
The guys exchange measured pleasantries but the vibes traveling through the air aren’t all that friendly. Patrick pulls into the driveway of a ranch style estate, punches in a code on a security box and waits as the gates open, driving inside. A large house is the hub with an attached five car garage, and four cabins scattered on the periphery.
“It looks the same,” Dylan says, opening the passenger, stepping out and holding his hand out to me, helping me step down from the truck.
“Not much has changed,” Patrick says.
“Fresh coat of paint. The house is yellow now, not white,” Dylan says.
“Mom wanted something bright and cheerful after her last bout with cancer. You haven’t been back since then?”
“Of course, I’ve been back since then,” Dylan says. “I arrived at night. When you weren’t here.”
“Right,” Patrick says. He lifts our suitcases from the truck bed onto the pavement and they split up the bags wheeling them up the driveway.
I accompany them into the main house expecting marble floors, gilded mirrors, and giant statues of Jesus. Instead there are honey colored hardwood floors, framed photos on the walls of laughing, smiling kids of all colors.
A thin sixty-something year old woman with sunshine yellow Doris Day hair moves into the kitchen’s entrance, sees Dylan, and stops dead in her tracks. She squeals in excitement like a teenage girl, her hands flying to her face. “My baby’s home!”
“Mom,” Dylan says, dropping the bags, walking the few yards toward her, pulling into a careful hug.
“I’m not china.” she says and smacks his arm. “Give me a real hug.”
His arms circle her waist more securely. She stands on tiptoes, planting a kiss on his cheek, tearing up.
It’s love I see around me. Love and warmth. An older man who could be a shorter, silver haired version of Dylan walks down the stairs toward me: his dad. There’s no judgment in his eyes, simply curiosity. “Welcome,” he says, extending a hand. “I’m Pastor -- ”
“Dad,” Dylan says. “Meet my girlfriend, Evie Berlinger.”
“Honored to meet you, sir,” I say as he grips my hand so hard I fear it might fall off. “Dylan’s said so many nice things about you.”
“Apparently, you’re a miracle worker because he talks to you,” he says. “How’d you get him to do that? I’ve been trying to get him to talk to me for thirty-eight years.”
“Maybe he doesn’t talk to you, Bill,” Dylan’s mom says, “because you’re always lecturing him. Hi, Evie. I’m Rosemary, Dylan’s mom.”
“Mom! Give me a half second to make the introductions, please.”
“Lovely to meet you, Mrs. McAlister,” I say.
“Call me Rosemary. Come with me,” she motions. “We’ll let the boys catch up on boring guy stuff. Besides it’s cocktail hour somewhere and I need a drink. I bet you could use one too after being stuffed in that airplane for – where were you flying from?”
“Memphis.”
She grabs my hand and leads me into the kitchen.
