The Widows of Wichita County. Jodi Thomas
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already working two jobs to keep us out of bankruptcy, she reasoned. Every year Kevin found more football buddies who remembered the great games over beer, and every year he found another job after he fumbled.
Amid it all, he somehow managed to remind her of how she had been the lucky one to catch him. Right now she did not feel lucky. She felt frightened and tired to the bone of worrying about money…and guilty for even thinking about it when the only man she had ever loved might be hurt.
“Morning, Mrs. Allen.” A candy striper greeted Meredith where three short hallways merged. The center passage doorway had been closed and a sign, No Unauthorized Personnel, taped across the seam.
The girl had that do-you-remember-me? look in her eyes.
“Good morning, Kimberly.” Meredith forced a smile. Kimberly had not changed in ten years. She had been a timid second-grader who grew into a hesitant woman. Her age and bust size were well beyond her youthful uniform, but the girl’s insecurity clung to one more year of childhood.
“I’m looking for my husband.” When Kimberly did not answer, Meredith added, “Kevin Allen.”
Meredith glanced at the reception desk but, as usual, it was deserted. Paperwork was usually handled at the nurses’ station, or in an emergency room while waiting for one of the town’s three doctors.
“This way.” Kimberly hurried down the hallway marked with a number 3 above the entrance. Her head low. Her hair curtained her face.
“Has Kevin been admitted?” Meredith hoped not. They could not afford a hospital stay. If he was laid up, she would take a few days of emergency leave and take care of him. Lately, everything in her life boiled down to how to save money, nothing more.
Kimberly did not answer.
“Has he seen the doctor yet?” With the center doors closed maybe the doctors were busy with a birth or a car wreck, and had not had time to get to him yet. “Were there others hurt in the rig accident?”
The timid girl seemed to have gone deaf as well as mute.
Meredith stopped her with a touch. “What is it?” The thought that Kevin might be behind the No Unauthorized Personnel sign worried its way into her thoughts.
Kimberly shook her head. “I don’t know nothing. I was just told to ask the widows to wait in the break room.”
“Widows,” Meredith whispered.
Kimberly shoved open a door at the end of the third hallway and waited for Meredith to step inside a room lined with vending machines.
The blood in Meredith’s head sought gravity, leaving her brain suddenly light and airy. She felt nothing, absolutely nothing, as she peered into the cavelike room at the other women who, with one word, had become her clan, her tribe. Widows.
11:03 a.m.
County Memorial Hospital
Black mascara tears trailed down Crystal Howard’s tanned face as she stepped into the break room. She looked around with a watery gaze. In a town the size of Clifton Creek, everyone knew everyone. They might never have spoken, but Crystal had seen pictures in the paper, or passed them in a store, or stood behind them in line at the bank. Strangers were people with out-of-state license plates, the women before her were home folks.
“Shelby’s been in an accident!” Crystal said to no one in particular. She ran a thumb beneath the stretchy material of her watermelon-colored body suit that fit her curves like a second skin and tried to pull the garment lower over her hips. “He may be dead already, and they’re not telling me. I’ve a right to know. I’m his wife.”
“We understand.” A tall, silver-haired woman’s low voice seemed to fill every inch of the room. “Our husbands were also in the accident. We’re all waiting to hear something from the doctors.”
“Only one survived,” added a woman a few years older than Crystal. “I’m Meredith Allen, Kevin’s wife, and this is Helena Whitworth. J. D. Whitworth and my Kevin were at the oil rig when it exploded.”
When Crystal just stared the woman continued, “Helen’s husband, J.D., planned to invest in the rig. For some reason, my Kevin went along for the ride this morning.”
Crystal looked down at Meredith’s offered hand. People in Clifton Creek were never friendly to her when Shelby wasn’t around. She knew what they said about her, marrying a man thirty years her senior. She’d been a waitress with nothing to her name, and he was a rich engineer, newly widowed. No one would believe they married for love even if Shelby had been willing to shout it from the courthouse roof.
Crystal took the hand. Meredith Allen did not look like the type to listen to gossip, much less spread it. She probably hadn’t heard any of the colorful stories about her and Shelby. Crystal found it hard to imagine this woman walking into Frankie’s Bar, wearing an ABC sweater, and sitting down to have a drink.
“I’m Mrs. Shelby Howard,” Crystal said, daring anyone to comment. She’d been married five years, had her hair bleached blonde at a fancy salon and bought her clothes in Dallas. She had endured three surgeries to mold her body to perfection, but she still felt like street trash. She was prepared to fight every time she met someone new.
“I know your husband.” The silver-haired lady stepped forward. “Though he was a few years younger, I went to school with him. He’s friends with my husband, J.D. I’m Helena Whitworth.”
Crystal tried to pull her jersey jacket closed across her workout clothes. She suddenly wished she’d had time to change. The gym fashion didn’t belong here. She swiped a palm across her cheek and stared at the makeup on her hand. Not only was she dressed improperly, if she didn’t stop crying she would be without makeup. Shelby was sure to yell at her.
A third woman, Crystal hadn’t noticed before, moved away from the shadows. She was tall, but then everyone towered over her five-foot-two-inch frame.
The woman pulled a cloth handkerchief trimmed in lace from the velvet folds of what looked to be an English-style riding jacket. She held the linen square out to Crystal.
Refusing the offer, Crystal added, “Oh, no. I couldn’t.”
The woman didn’t lower the handkerchief. When Crystal met her gaze, she was struck by the natural beauty before her. Huge dark eyes. Long black hair. Breeding that came with generations of old money.
Crystal took the handkerchief and stood up straighter, wishing she had her four-inch heels. “You’re not from around here, are you?” The question was out before she knew she’d spoken, but no one looking like this woman ever grew up in Clifton Creek. She reminded Crystal of a picture of Snow White she had seen in an old children’s book.
“I—I am Anna,” the woman said in a way that made the words sound foreign. “I—I am the wife of D-Davis Montano. The oil rig was being built on our land. I—I have been told Davis was there when the accident happened.” Her words stumbled over each other. “A—a nurse said they found his wallet in the pile of burned clothes collected from the emergency room floor.”
Crystal nodded, trying not to say anything else to the foreigner. Everyone in the county knew Davis went all the way to Italy for a wife, but few people had ever seen her. Several of the single girls around town were upset when he married. Davis raised racehorses on the good pasture land he inherited. He had traveled to Europe for a new bloodline and had come back with a stallion and a woman.
Wiping her face with the linen of Anna Montano’s handkerchief, Crystal decided she might be little better than white trash, but at least she was from around here. Pretty Snow White Anna wouldn’t belong here if she lived to be a hundred. In fact, when she died and was buried in the Montano plot, she’d still be the foreign wife Davis had brought home.
Pacing to the door, Crystal crossed her arms over her ample chest. “My Shelby’s still alive. Isn’t he? They didn’t tell me he was dead. They just said to come to the hospital. They