Chapter 4: Packing Up

Two days later I drove up the driveway of our Nashville house with two of my grandfather's guards in the car behind me.

I had asked for one.

Grandfather had sent two and said nothing about it.

The lawn had been mowed and the porch light was on, and it looked like any house where a family lived.

I had chosen the yellow shutters myself.

Darlene opened the front door before I reached it.

She was wearing her good pearls and an apron over her church cardigan, and she held a dish towel in both hands.

"Linnea," she said. "How nice. I'd have baked if I'd known."

"I'm here for the children's things."

"Of course you are, dear. Come in. Mind the mat, I've just had it cleaned."

The mat had never been cleaned in six years.

Inside, the house smelled of lemon polish and heavy floral perfume.

Then I saw the hall table.

My photographs were gone.

The wedding picture, the one of me pregnant on the porch, the twins' first birthday.

In their place stood a row of framed pictures of Colt at nine, at fifteen, at twenty, in a cowboy hat, in a choir robe, with a guitar.

"I thought it needed some warmth," Darlene said.

I walked past her and up the stairs.

Birdie's room first.

I packed the yellow rain boots, the book about the dragon who hated fire, and the three drawings taped above her bed.

Gus's room next.

I took his night-light, his blue pajamas and the box of toy trains he said were "for emergencies."

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