would be hard enough without personal tension between them.
But damn, it wasn’t fair that a woman as intelligent and pretty and downright interesting as Caroline Prater—a woman almost thirty-five years of age—was still so desperate for a place to belong that she was developing bonds with people she’d never even met.
CHAPTER FIVE
SHELTER VALLEY WAS probably quieter on that second Thursday in January than any of the other days Caroline had been there. But as she walked downtown midafternoon, learning her way around, window-shopping for things she might never be able to afford, she certainly felt as though the town was drained of life. She didn’t need to turn her head to catch a glimpse of her sister or any of the other people she knew only from grainy newspaper photos. The town’s mayor, Becca Parsons, and her husband, Will, who was the president of Montford University. Or Cassie Montford, the vet who’d been in the news with her innovative pet-therapy program. Caroline had followed the story avidly, as Phyllis had collaborated with Cassie in the therapy portion of the program.
There was no point in thinking the dark-haired woman on the corner was Bonnie Nielson, owner of the local day care, who’d made various Arizona newspapers because she’d developed a nationally known program for children and seniors together.
Today Caroline didn’t have any chance of running into Beth Richards, wife of the local sheriff, Greg. She’d read an article about Beth when, as a fugitive, she’d turned state’s evidence in Texas on a cult she’d inadvertently been part of with her ex-husband. Nor was she going to see Martha Marks or her new husband, preacher David Cole Marks. Ellen’s mother and the minister who’d helped track down her rapist would undoubtedly be sitting on either side of her in that courtroom in Phoenix.
With a hand on her still-flat stomach, Caroline smiled at an older woman who was entering into Weber’s Department Store and decided she should head home. If the online version of the Phoenix newspaper was going to report Ellen’s trial—and she suspected it would, since it involved some of Phoenix’s most powerful men and the breakup of a large prostitution ring—the link would probably be up before her fellow townspeople returned home.
SHE HAD TO REFRESH her browser a couple of times, but before dinner that evening, and after her weekly call to her mother from the cell phone that didn’t charge extra for long-distance, Caroline was watching a video of the first day of jury selection online. Of course the clip was only a couple of minutes long. But it was enough to give a sense of being involved in something that meant so much to the people she was hoping would someday accept her as one of their own. The accompanying news story was fairly detailed, painting a courtroom picture that was both heartbreaking and inspiring.
Later that evening, she turned to her journal.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
I wish I could’ve been there today! I saw all the Shelter Valley people outside the courthouse. Apparently the news reporter thought the town’s collective support noteworthy. It was just a glimpse and yet it affected me so deeply I can’t quite get away from the feeling. They were like one huge supportive family. In the clip I managed to see, Matt Sheffield, my sister’s husband, was holding Randi and Zack Foster’s son, Billy. Randi is Will Parsons’ youngest sister. I recently saw the little boy in a photo in the Shelter Valley paper. He’d been in his uncle Will’s arms at a university function over Christmas or I wouldn’t have known him. Outside the courthouse, Becca Parsons was standing with Ellen and her family. Ben Sanders’s adopted daughter, Alex, stood close beside her stepmother, Tory, who was with Phyllis.
I couldn’t see Phyllis well—it was a side shot of her—but just getting confirmation that she’s really here made my stomach jump. It does somersaults every time I think about actually seeing her, speaking to her. Sometimes I think I can’t possibly wait until next week when school starts. And sometimes I think I won’t dare go to school for fear of meeting her. What if I act like a country hick and she can’t stand me? What if she somehow recognizes me and is livid that I’ve come here, disrupting her life? I’ve sure read enough about birth families to know that’s a very common response. Ohhh. One step at a time. And today’s step is to occupy the next few hours until bedtime.
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