Chapter 9: Saturday Morning
Thomas Vare arrived at nine fifty-eight.
Ryan watched from the front window as a dark blue pickup pulled to the curb.
The man who got out was tall, somewhere in his mid-forties, with the kind of stillness that comes from spending time outdoors.
He stood beside the truck for a moment, looking at the house.
He had a paper bag in one hand — Ryan couldn't see what was in it.
Ryan opened the door before Thomas reached the porch.
They shook hands.
Thomas's grip was firm but not performed.
"Thank you for coming," Ryan said.
"Thank you for calling." Thomas looked past him into the house, then caught himself and looked back.
"How is she?"
"Better than she was a week ago." Ryan stepped aside.
"Come in."
Caroline was in the kitchen.
She shook Thomas's hand and offered coffee, which he accepted.
They sat at the table — the same table where Lily had eaten her first bowl of soup, where Ryan had read the article about Gerald Marsh, where so much of the last week had happened.
"She knows you're coming," Ryan said.
"I told her last night.
I told her who you are."
Thomas set his coffee mug down.
"How did she take it?"
"She asked if you were nervous."
Something moved across Thomas's face.
"What did you say?"
"I said probably yes."
He nodded slowly.
"You were right."
Upstairs, a door opened.
Footsteps in the hall.
Then on the stairs, slow and deliberate — both feet on each step.
Lily appeared at the bottom of the staircase.
She was wearing the same too-big coat, even inside.
She'd washed her hair — Caroline had helped her the night before.
The broken-buckle shoe had been replaced by a pair of Danny's old sneakers, slightly too big, the laces doubled-knotted.
She looked at Thomas.
Thomas looked at her.
Neither of them moved for a moment.
Then Thomas set the paper bag on the counter and crouched down so he was at her eye level.
"Hi, Lily," he said.
"My name is Thomas."
"I know," she said.
"Your mom wrote me a letter," he said.
"I didn't get to read it, but Ryan told me what it said."
Lily's hand went to her coat pocket.
The letter was in there.
"She said you were kind," Lily said.
"I'm going to try to be," Thomas said.
"I can't promise I'll always get it right.
But I'm going to try."
Lily studied him with the focused, unguarded attention of a child who has learned to read people quickly.
"You brought something," she said, looking at the paper bag.
"I did." He stood up and retrieved it, held it out to her.
"I didn't know what you liked.
I made a guess."
She opened the bag.
Inside was a small sketchbook and a tin of colored pencils.
She looked at it for a long moment.
"How did you know?" she said.
Thomas glanced at Ryan, confused.
Ryan shook his head slightly — he hadn't said anything.
"Know what?" Thomas asked.
"My mom used to draw," Lily said.
"She taught me." She looked back at the sketchbook.
"I lost my pencils when I ran."
Thomas was quiet for a moment.
"Then I'm glad I guessed right."
Lily carried the bag to the kitchen table and sat down.
She opened the tin and looked at the pencils — arranged by color, a full set, nothing missing.
She picked up a red one.
Then she looked up at Thomas, who was still standing near the counter, not wanting to crowd her.
"You can sit down," she said.
"If you want."
He pulled out a chair and sat.
She opened the sketchbook to the first page and began to draw.
Thomas watched.
He didn't speak.
He didn't ask what she was drawing.
He just sat with her, in the quiet of the kitchen, while Ryan and Caroline stood in the doorway and let the morning do what it needed to do.
After a while — ten minutes, maybe fifteen — Lily turned the sketchbook around and slid it across the table.
She'd drawn two bracelets.
Side by side.
Red and yellow, the colors twisted together.
Thomas looked at the drawing for a long time.
"She had one too," Lily said.
"My mom.
They matched."
"I know," Thomas said softly.
"She wore it every day."
Lily went very still.
"You saw it?" she whispered.
"A long time ago," he said.
"When we were young."
Lily looked at the drawing.
Then she reached into her pocket and took out the letter — worn, soft at the folds — and set it on the table between them.
"She wrote this for me," she said.
"But I think maybe it was for you too."
Thomas looked at the letter.
He didn't pick it up.
"Can I read it?" he asked.
"Yes," Lily said.
He read it slowly.
When he finished, he folded it carefully along its existing lines and set it back on the table.
He didn't say anything for a moment.
Then: "She was right, you know.
What she wrote."
"Which part?" Lily asked.
"The part about you." His voice was steady, but only just.
"That you're the best thing she ever did."
Lily looked at him.
Really looked at him — the same focused, careful attention she'd given Ryan through the vent grate on the first night.
Then she picked up the red pencil again.
May you like
"Okay," she said quietly.
And went back to drawing.
