CHAPTER 1
Tides change. So does the moon. With the unfailing
constancy of brittle autumn closing in on bright summer,
things always changed. If Suzanne had ever had faith in
anything, it was in knowing that all things were fleeting.
And for good reason. The highway of life was littered with
the roadkill of those who didn't know when to change lanes.
Almost asleep now, Suzanne brushed the pads of her
fingers across her forehead, then down the bridge of her
nose to the small, pointed bone of her chin. Yes, it was
still her. One thousand miles, a quick dye job, and the
surgical removal of her life had not completely obliterated
her. Just smudged the edges.
The hissing of the bus's brakes brought Suzanne awake
from her almost–doze. She pushed herself away from
the images of a soft bed and dark Italian suits and opened
her eyes wide to stare out at the anonymous highway rolling
outside her window. A waxing moon smiled down at her with
a crescent grin, and she touched the glass as if to bring
it closer. "God's smile," she whispered to no one,
recalling something her mother had once told her. Absently
she let her fingers fall to the charm on the gold chain
around her neck, finding comfort in touching the small
heart through her shirt.
A sign on the overpass above them beamed at her through
the murky glass: Welcome to Walton. Where Everybody Is
Somebody. She craned her neck as the bus slid under the
overpass, partially obscuring the sign, but wanting to make
sure she had read it right. The bus slowed to a stop, and
the door opened with a loud gasp. An older woman, wearing
red high heels and with hair puffed out in a tight bouffant
like a halo, stood at the back of the bus and began walking
forward.
The driver followed the woman off the bus, and Suzanne
listened as the luggage compartment was opened. With a
squeal, the woman greeted somebody who had been waiting.
She listened as a deep male voice, definitely not that of
their Hispanic driver, greeted the passenger. His voice
carried an accent that would have placed him in rural
Georgia no matter what corner of the world he might
travel. Suzanne smiled to herself, content not to be so
burdened.
The driver seemed to be taking a long time pulling out
the woman's luggage. From the snippets of conversation,
Suzanne gathered that there was a piece missing. She
rested her head on the back of her seat and continued to
listen. She heard the Georgia man speak again, and there
was something about his voice that pulled at her, something
thick and rich like dark syrup. It soothed and cajoled, as
if the voice had had years of practice.
Disturbed by the effect the man's voice was having on
her, she turned away, but only to catch sight of the sign
again. Welcome to Walton. Where Everybody Is Somebody.
She sat up, watching as the light trained on the sign
dimmed, then brightened, flickering at her like a winking
eye. With a hand that trembled slightly, she pulled at the
chain around her neck until the charm fell on the outside
of her Tee–shirt. Tucking in her chin to see it
better, she turned the gold heart over in her hand to read
the tiny, engraved words.
A life without rain is like the sun without shade. With
short, unpolished nails, she scraped the charm from her
palm and flipped it over. R. Michael Jewelers. Walton.
She pressed her forehead against the window, forcing
herself to breathe deeply and recalling the woman who had
given her the necklace. Walton. The name shifted her jaw,
as if moved by her mother's invisible hand, but she shook
her head. It was a million–to–one shot that it
was the same town. It would take sheer
luck—something that had always run on a parallel with
her life, never intersecting.
As she stared out the window, a small shape darted from
the grass on the other side of the highway and onto the
shoulder of the road. Headlights from an approaching car
appeared on the horizon, two pinpoints gradually growing
larger. The shape moved into the arc cast by a
streetlight, and Suzanne recognized the pointed head and
thin, whiplike tail of an opossum.
Pushing her hands against the window in an impotent
offer to help, she glanced again at the approaching car,
then back at the animal, its quivering nose pointing into
the road. "Don't," Suzanne mouthed, but slowly the animal
waddled into the lane and stopped, watching as the car bore
down on it.
The entire scene was too much like her mother's
fascination with the bottle, complete with Suzanne's own
helplessness, and she shut her eyes on the inevitable, only
opening them when she could hear the dying strains of a
country song from the radio of the car as it passed.
Peering out the glass, she could make out the small animal
in the middle of the road, curled into a tight little ball
under the crescent moon. It wasn't dead, but it wasn't
doing anything to prevent another onslaught, either.
Abruptly she stood and announced to no one in
particular, "I'm getting off here."