Last Chance Christmas (Last Chance #5)(5)
Author: Hope Ramsay

Just then, the door opened, and a zaftig woman with blue-gray hair stepped into the room bearing a bed table and tray. She wore a printed polyester dress splashed with blue flowers that did nothing for her larger-than-life figure.

“Ah,” the woman said, stepping across the room in her old-lady flats. “I see our patient is awake.”

She placed the bed table over Lark’s legs. On the tray was a breakfast that would never get the American Heart Association’s seal of approval: eggs, bacon, biscuits, and a bowl of something that looked like Cream of Wheat with a large pat of butter melting in it.

“I’m Lillian Bray, chair of the Christ Church Ladies’ Auxiliary,” polyester lady said.

“Hi, I’m Lark. Thanks for taking care of me. And, um, is that grits?”

“You’ve never eaten grits, have you?” Lillian asked.

“No, I haven’t. I usually have a bagel and a cup of coffee. I’m not much of a breakfast eater.”

“Oh,” Lillian said, “I didn’t think. You don’t eat bacon either, do you?”

Lark looked up, right into Lillian’s blue eyes. The woman’s concern over Lark’s dietary habits masked something else. There was just a hint of uneasiness in Lillian’s gaze, as if she didn’t like outsiders, or maybe she didn’t care for people who weren’t exactly like her.

Or maybe she was just worried that she’d made a big mistake.

Lark needed to quit projecting things onto people. It was a sure sign that she’d spent too much time knocking around places where people went to war over small, insignificant differences.

Well, at least she could put Lillian’s fear about her dietary restrictions to rest. She smiled and picked up a thick slice of bacon. “That rumor about my being a vegetarian is completely untrue,” Lark said between chews.

Lillian seemed a little nonplussed by Lark’s snappy comeback. She cleared her throat. “I reckon that’s a good thing. I mean, seeing as pork is one of the staples of our diet.”

“Yes, and it’s very nice to be in a place where bacon is readily available. You should try ordering a BLT in Baghdad.”

Lillian dropped her bulk into an empty chair on the other side of the bed. “So you’re not Jewish?”

“Nope,” Lark said. It was amazing how one little word eliminated the need to explain how Pop had been born Jewish and died an atheist, or how Mom had been born Catholic and died a Buddhist. Or how, as a kid, Lark had been dragged off to Humanist Sunday School at the Ethical Culture Society. Best to enjoy the bacon and keep her mouth shut.

“Lark was just telling me that her daddy went on to become Vitto Giancola, the author of those mystery books,” Miriam said into the sudden silence.

Lillian’s gaze narrowed. “You don’t say so. The Carmine Falcone stories? Oh, I just love that TV show. Clint Burroughs is so handsome, don’t you think?”

Neither Miriam nor Lark answered Lillian’s rhetorical question.

After another awkward moment, Miriam once again picked up the stalled conversation. “You’ve been through a lot lately, haven’t you, Lark?” she said.

Lark went on alert, pausing in the middle of slathering butter on a biscuit. She didn’t look up.

“So,” Miriam continued in a leading tone, “those cameras look like something a professional would have. Are you a photographer?”

Lark nodded and took a bite out of the biscuit. It practically melted in her mouth, no doubt because it was made with copious quantities of lard or something. No one cooked with lard where Lark came from. She concentrated on the heavenly taste of the food and remained silent.

The conversation stalled completely until Miriam said, “You know, honey, I’m thinking that you need to find someone who understands you. Someone you can talk honestly with.”

Lark looked up from her breakfast right into the glittering eyes of Miriam Randall. “What do you mean? Like a therapist?”

“Why, do you need a therapist?”

Lark’s face burned, but she said nothing.

Miriam shook her head. “No, I was thinking that you need to be on the lookout for a lost friend. Someone you may have missed or overlooked. Someone who understands you and your demons.”

Lillian straightened in her chair. “Demons?”

Miriam snorted. “Not demons from hell, Lillian. I was talking about the other kind.”

“Are there any other kind?” Lillian gave Lark another assessing gaze, as if she were searching Lark’s forehead for horns.

“Well,” Miriam said. “I was talking about the demons that people create for themselves.”

Lark put down the half-eaten biscuit, her appetite suddenly vanishing. “Excuse me, but I don’t think I’ve created any demons for myself. And why do you even think I have demons?”

“Because you do,” Miriam said, her deep brown eyes clear and sober.

Lark looked away. The old lady liked to meddle in other people’s business, didn’t she? “Any demons I have were created by the bad guys,” Lark finally said.

“Bad guys?” Lillian asked.

“Yeah, like Muammar Gaddafi and the warring factions in Libya last April.”

Lillian’s mouth dropped open, but Miriam seemed unfazed. She leaned in and patted Lark on her blanket-covered leg. “Honey, you should be looking for someone to talk to. Someone who can help you find your balance again.”

“Well, I’ll be,” Lillian said. “Is this one of your matches, Miriam?”

“What?” Lark asked.

“Oh, well, sometimes the Lord gives me hints about the kind of match a person should be looking for in life. And when I get a hint like that, I do my best to pass on the advice.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Holy crap, these nice Christian ladies were like a bunch of yentas.

“Miriam never kids, do you?” Lillian said to her friend.

“No, I don’t,” Miriam said.

“Uh, look, ladies, I have no interest in romance. I’m thirty-six, a respected photojournalist, and I’m completely happy with my life.”

Miriam turned her gaze on Lark like a laser beam, slicing her open for the world to inspect. “Are you really happy with your life?”

“Daddy, I need the computer,” Lizzy said as she walked into the little den off the front parlor.

“I’m almost finished,” Stone said as he continued to stare at the screen in front of him, both amazed and humbled by the image there.

“What are you doing?” Lizzy came up behind him and stared at the screen. “I didn’t know you were all that interested in the famine in Somalia.”

“I’m not,” he said. Riveted by the image of a young woman holding an infant who was small, starving, and obviously ill. The woman evoked the Madonna. The photo was disturbing, but he couldn’t look away. There was an expression in the mother’s eyes as she looked down at her infant that was so tender and so full of love and hope.

Lizzy leaned over his shoulder. “Oh, that’s the photo that UNICEF used on its posters this October.”

“What posters?”

“You know, at Halloween. The kids in the service club sponsored a schoolwide fast to raise awareness. Everyone was asked to donate their lunch money. It’s totally a shame. You know, millions of people have died, and the famine hardly gets a mention on the evening news.”

“How do you know these things? You’re just a kid.”

She rolled her eyes and flipped her hair and gave him that chin-up defiant stare. “I’m older than you seem to think. I read The New York Times every day. I edit the news and politics section of the school newspaper. I’m well informed.”

Stone blinked. He was obviously not paying enough attention to Lizzy. She was growing up in front of his eyes. She looked like him, but in a lot of ways she was so much like her mother. Paying attention to starving kids in Africa was just the kind of thing Sharon did. Sharon had been his beautiful crusader.

“Why are you suddenly interested in the famine?” Lizzy asked.

“I’m not. These photos were taken by Lark Chaikin.”

“What?”

He turned back toward the computer and opened another browser tab. This one showed two soldiers wearing battle gear and full camouflage. They were holding on to each other. Their eyes were closed, the emotions playing across their faces raw and arresting. Framed in the background was a rifle, bayonet impaled in the sand, with a helmet resting on the stock and a pair of boots lined up beside it.

“Wow,” Lizzy said.

“Yeah.” Stone didn’t need to say much more than that. You couldn’t possibly explain in words what those soldiers were feeling. But the photo explained it. Strong emotions churned in Stone’s gut. He’d been to war. He’d lost buddies. He knew.

It wasn’t an easy photo to look at. Lark had captured the spirit of brotherhood that exists in every battle-tested unit. The humanity of the soldiers sang from the image.

“Did Ms. Chaikin take this photograph, too?”

“Yeah. She did. She won a Pulitzer Prize for this one.”

“Wow. I didn’t know she was a photojournalist.”

“Apparently one of the best. She specializes in wars and disasters. And she’s been through a wringer recently. Look.” He clicked on another web page. This one had a photo of Lark dressed in battle fatigues, a helmet, and a flak jacket. She was covered in blood.

“Oh, my God, was she wounded?”

“No, she was with those journalists in Libya earlier this year. You know, when the TV guy was killed. She was one of the eyewitnesses.” And by the deer-in-the-headlights look on her face, she’d seen some pretty gruesome things.

“Oh,” Lizzy breathed out.

“Yeah.”

“You’re checking up on her, aren’t you?” Lizzy said.

He shrugged. “That’s what I do.”

“Well, that totally stinks. She rocks as a photographer. All she wants is to lay her father to rest. You and Granddaddy should let her do it. Ashes are just dust anyway. What’s the harm?

“But, oh no, instead you’re in here conducting an investigation into her past, like she’s carrying some kind of plague or she’s a bad influence. As you can see, she’s not. She’s pretty brave and talented.”

Lizzy shook her head. “Sometimes I hate living in this town. People just don’t seem to be able to let go of the past and move on. You know that?” Lizzy’s voice cracked, and her composure slipped.

Before he could even formulate something useful to say, Lizzy turned on her heel and stalked out of the room in a huff. Damn, she was angry at him again. And that was strange because he actually agreed with her.

Sometimes he hated living in this town, too.

Chapter 4

David Raab opened his locker and found the note inside. The language was mean and hate-filled. He stood there with his hands shaking, feeling scared and out of place.

Maybe he should talk to Dr. Williams, the principal of Jefferson Davis High School. This new note was covered in swastikas.