Cynthia Thomason - A Soldier's Promise

She clutched the steering wheel until her knuckles went white and said, “So any news?”

“Well, yes. There’s good news.”

Brenna held her breath.

“Your dad got a few hours of work with that fella who moved into the unit next door. The man got hired to paint the inside of the Waffle House and he asked your father to help him. It was a godsend, really.”

“Daddy’s back wasn’t hurting him?” Brenna asked.

“He took some of that twelve-hour pain medication and did okay.”

Her mother paused, and Brenna waited for what was to come.

“But it’s not all rosy here, Brenna May,” Alma said, “and that’s partly why I called today.”

She tried to keep the edge of impatience out of her voice. “What’s wrong?”

“The brakes on the truck went out. Wayne at the shop wants almost five hundred to fix them. We gotta do it, of course.” Her mother emitted a nervous chuckle. “Can’t be driving around with no brakes.”

“Do you think it’s a fair price?” Brenna asked. Mike’s face popped into her mind again. She almost said, “I know a good mechanic.”

“Oh, yeah. Wayne would never cheat us.”

Cut to the chase. “How much do you need?”

“We’ll pay you back. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“We’ve got two hundred and forty left over from the paint job, so...”

Brenna did the math. “You need two hundred sixty.” She had that much in her checking account. At least she wouldn’t have to raid her savings. “I’ll send a check out tomorrow. You’ll get it Wednesday. Tell Wayne to go ahead and fix the car.”

“I’d use your dad’s Social Security check, but we need...”

“It’s okay, Mom.”

She disconnected as soon as possible and continued toward home. As she approached her comfortable cottage, she breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness she wasn’t still living in that nine-by-nine trailer bedroom with its leak-stained ceilings, built-in drawers and tiny closet with a plastic shower curtain for a door. She’d grown up in that room. She’d worked her way through college living in that room.

She got out of her car, walked to the front porch that greeted her with planters of geraniums and pansies and delicate wicker furniture. When she opened her door, a blast of cool air welcomed her as she stepped inside.

She’d escaped that room in that single-wide trailer. She’d never told anyone about that room, not even Diana. And she’d never go back.

* * *

DIANA FROWNED DOWN at her plate of watery spaghetti. “There’s just something not quite right about cafeteria pasta,” she said, spreading her napkin on her lap.

Brenna smiled at her and added dressing to her salad. “I have to ask you something, Di.”

“Shoot.”

“What do you know about a house beyond the gristmill?”

Diana stopped twirling spaghetti around her fork and looked up at Brenna. “Did you say beyond the mill?”

“Yes.”

Diana thought a moment. “There’s only one house out there that I know of. A cabin, really. Not very fancy. In fact, almost primitive. It hasn’t been occupied in a long time.”

Bingo. “Who owns it?”

“Let me think. The last person to stay out there was a part-time resident, an older lady who used to come for the winters. But she hasn’t been there in, I don’t know, maybe ten years.”

“And the cabin belonged to her?”

“I think so. It’s one of those older places that some people say should be on the historic registry. It’s what we used to call a pioneer cabin and was home to some of Mount Union’s original citizens.”

“Interesting.”

“I know it’s been modernized. The old lady had plumbing and power. You can see the wires running out that way from Con Electric. And phone cables, too.”

“What was the lady’s name?”

“Oh, jeez, Bren, I don’t remember. I think it was Emily or Amy. Something old-fashioned like that. Her last name started with an L, I think.”

“Could it have been Langston?” Brenna suggested.

“Could have been.” Diana lifted her spaghetti to her mouth. Her eyes widened as she chewed. “Wait a minute.” She swallowed, took a drink of water. “Langston? Isn’t that the name of your new student, the one who came to your house?”

“Exactly. This family, the mysterious mechanic and his daughter, must be related to old Mrs. Langston somehow.”

“And they’re living in her place.”

“Away from town, out of sight,” Brenna said.

“Do you still suspect the worst about the father?” Diana asked.

“No, not the worst. He’s not hurting his daughter, at least in the way I thought when he picked her up at my house on Friday. But something is going on. That girl is unhappy. She’s lonely. She needs...” Brenna couldn’t say the words. They were still alien to her vocabulary.

Diana grinned. “You, Brenna? The girl needs you?”

Brenna sighed. “Yeah, she needs me.”

“Well, holy cow. Look who’s suddenly getting involved. I thought your volunteering to chair the renovation of the Cultural Arts Center for teens was the only extracurricular activity we’d get out of you this year.”

Brenna smirked. “Yes, and it’s a monumental activity, you must admit. I have you to thank for matching me up with that little job.”

What Diana said was true. Maybe Brenna had seen too much of herself in Carrie Langston. Maybe she’d seen just enough of the girl’s reticent, brooding father. Maybe she was ready to move on from her past. Whatever the reason, she was becoming emotionally involved with a student again.

“I’m thinking I need to go to the farm stand on White Deer Trail,” Brenna said.

“I don’t suppose your longing for fresh, local vegetables has anything to do with the fact that the old mill is on White Deer?”

Brenna pretended surprise. “It is? What a coincidence.”

Diana smiled. “You should know, Bren, it’s a little hard to do a drive-by of Mrs. Langston’s cabin. As I recall, once you drive in, the only way out is to turn around and leave the same way.”

Brenna smiled. “I’ll figure something out. I just have to go. I’m developing quite an interest in one of Mount Union’s pioneer cabins.”

CHAPTER FOUR

ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, seven days after Brenna first met Mike Langston, she called the garage and asked to speak to him. One of the other mechanics told her to hold on, and he shouted Mike’s name. At that point Brenna said, “Oh, I’m sorry. Someone’s at the door. I’ll call back.” She had gotten the info she needed. Mike wasn’t at his cabin.

She checked her watch. School had been dismissed an hour ago. The buses had all left within ten minutes. Carrie would be home, but if Brenna were careful, she wouldn’t run into her. And now she knew Mike was at work, so there was no chance of running into him. She’d see old Mrs. Langston’s cabin and draw her own conclusions about its livability.

She drove into the country, past the Montgomerys’ house, the farm stand and the old mill, one of Mount Union’s most historic buildings and a favorite field trip for elementary students.

Slowing her car just after the mill, she noticed a narrow drive winding into a stand of live oak and magnolia trees. The rutted path was overgrown. Brenna debated the wisdom of navigating it in her Mazda but decided her trusty little car could make it.

She progressed slowly, holding her breath at each bump in the drive. She’d gone about three hundred yards when she saw the roof of a house and a brick chimney covered with ivy and moss. There being no place to pull over, she stopped in the middle of the path and got out of her car. She hadn’t gone too far into the trees that she couldn’t back out safely and return to White Deer Trail.