When Never Comes

by Barbara Davis

Christine took a cookie, nibbling politely. “I don’t suppose the Rusty Nail is still in business, by any chance?” Missy looked surprised. “The Nail’s been closed for years. It’s a pizza place now, and a pretty good one if that’s what you’re in the mood for. I take it you’ve been to Sweetwater?” Christine nodded. “Years ago, on my honeymoon.” “Oh, nice. Is your husband traveling with you this time through?” “No, he’s . . . I’m a widow.” The word stopped her cold. It was the first time she’d said it out loud, and it surprised her how easily it had slipped from her tongue. Missy reached across the counter to give her hand a squeeze. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. And you, so young. Was it sudden?” “Yes. He was—” She paused, realizing she was about to say too much. “He drowned.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either—at least not all of it. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to dislodge the images that had been haunting her for days. Had he been conscious? Had he struggled, and if so, for how long before the water had finally filled his lungs? Missy’s gray-green eyes filled with sympathy. “You poor thing. I have a friend who lost her husband a year ago, and I’ve seen what she’s go...

having a circle of friends, she was out of luck. There were a handful of women from the club she had socialized with now and then, most of them the wives of Stephen’s friends. A few had even sent cards filled with condolences, but that’s as far as it went—and as far as Christine wanted it to go. “I’m sorry,” Missy blurted. “You were asking about dinner, and as usual, I went down a rabbit hole. I’d definitely recommend the Cork and Cleaver. It’s right next door, and the food is wonderful. Queenie Peterson owns it. She’s a friend of mine, so I’m a little bit biased, but they really do have the best food in town.” Christine nodded vaguely, staring at the line on the registration form asking for her name. She didn’t dare use Ludlow. Instead, she picked up the pen and printed the name she’d given up eight years ago when she married Stephen. From here on out, she was Christy-Lynn Parker. Now all she had to do was remember. “Do I pay you for the room now?” she asked when she had completed the form. “Tomorrow will be fine. Here’s your key. Your room is at the top of the stairs. Breakfast is served until eleven in the room right off the stairs. There are no TVs in any of the rooms, but i...

Missy’s words drifted through her head as she closed her eyes. Tomorrow will be better. She hoped so. Christy-Lynn Parker. Christy-Lynn Parker. The name seemed to throb like a drumbeat in her head as she strolled Sweetwater’s downtown streets, a reminder that yesterday she had stepped out of one life and into another. It was a strange feeling to suddenly find yourself unmoored from your own life, to open your eyes in the morning and not know where you are, where you’re going, or even what happens next. But it was liberating too, in a way, the delicious anonymity of simply blending into the scenery of a small town street. It had been years since she’d been able to blend into the scenery back in Clear Harbor. She was heading for the corner deli, humorously named the Fickle Pickle, when her fingers began to cramp. She paused, shifting her shopping bags from one hand to the other. Hippie clothes, Stephen would have called her recent purchases. And maybe they were. They were certainly nothing like the sleek designer labels he preferred she wear, or even the cheap working girl separa...

windows when they met—hardly trophy wife material. Stephen had been on his way to a marketing lunch with his editor when she literally ran into him in the hall with an armload of cover posters. He had spoken first, apologizing when the collision had clearly been her fault. It irked her to think of it now—one flashed smile, and she’d gone all tongue-tied. He had canceled with his editor, inviting her for sushi instead, which she secretly hated but pretended to love. Six months later, they were married, and the pretending had become more complicated. Christy-Lynn shook off the memory, redistributed her shopping bags, and continued on to the deli. She was reaching for the door when she spotted a sign for the Hair Lair next door and changed direction. An entry chime sounded as she entered the shop. Other than the gum-chewing stylist leaning against one of the shampoo bowls the place was empty. “Hey there. What can I do ya for?” Christy-Lynn ran a hand through her shoulder-length hair, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m thinking about going short, maybe adding some highlights. Can you do that?” “Honey, I can do whatever you want if you’ve got the time.” “I mean now. Can you do it right no...

around to face the mirror. Christy-Lynn experienced a moment of confusion as she faced her reflection. It was like looking at a stranger who resembled someone she used to know but had lost touch with. She ran a hand through her hair, shook her head back and forth, savoring the feel of the soft, springy curls against the nape of her neck. Stephen had liked it long, preferably pulled back in a sleek Town & Country ponytail. She had humored him, of course, as she had with most things, but now as she stared at this throwback version of herself, it was as if time had folded in on itself, returning her to the woman she ...

The sound of canned mariachi music greeted Christy-Lynn as she stepped into the lobby of Taco Loco. She wasn’t sure why she came in. She wasn’t really hungry, but she wasn’t ready to go back to her room at the inn either. And it would appear she wasn’t the only one taking advantage of the unseasonably warm evening. The place was jammed, with every table full and several large parties waiting to be seated. The hostess, a frazzled woman with a headful of blue-black hair, was doing her best to greet guests and manage the wait list. Christy-Lynn had just managed to catch her eye when she heard someone calling her name. After a quick scan of the tables, she saw Missy near the back of the restaurant, waving frantically. “Oh, my Lord! It is you!” she gushed when Christy-Lynn had finally made her way over. “I wasn’t sure at first. Look at your hair! Did you know you were going to do that when you left this morning?” Christy-Lynn tucked the freshly cropped strands behind her ears, suddenly self-conscious. It was like part of her was

missing. “I didn’t. I was on my way to grab some lunch when I saw the salon and thought, Why not?” “Well, I just love it. It’s fun and really sexy. Don’t you think, Dar? Oh, sorry, I almost forgot. This is Dar Setters. She runs the new age shop on Bond Street. Crystals, candles, that sort of thing. Hey, why don’t you eat with us? We just sat down.” Christy-Lynn smiled awkwardly at the blonde seated across from Missy. “Thanks, but I don’t want to crash your dinner. I just put my name on the list.” Dar smiled. She was pale and petite, almost ethereal, her head of silver-blonde hair framing her small face like a halo of moonlight. “Don’t be silly. Missy was just telling me about you. I’m sorry to hear about your husband.” Christy-Lynn wasn’t sure she liked being the topic of conversation but forced a smile. “Thank you. It’s awfully nice of you to include me.” “Don’t be silly,” Missy said, pulling out the chair next to her. “We’re not going to sit here and let you eat by yourself. You need to be with friends. Besides, it’s margarita night!” Missy’s gaze strayed briefly as a waiter in snug-fitting black slacks moved past with a tray balanced on one shoulder. “The scenery’s not bad either.” Dar sighed and snapped her fingers. “Focus, Missy.” Missy whipped her head around, feigning innocence. “What?” “I thought you said you’d sworn off men.” “There’s nothing wrong with looking, honey. Especially when looking’s all you’ve got time for. Not that anyone’s likely to look back. Guys a...

days, and she had her own baggage to carry. “How old are your sons?” “Six and eight. Nathan and Christian. Both monsters and both adorable.” Divorced, a businesswoman, and a single mom. Christy-Lynn was impressed. “How do you do it? Run an inn and raise two little boys on your own?” “Oh, I have help. My parents live close, and I have a great sitter. She’s with them now. I feel bad sometimes, leaving them after working all day, but sometimes it feels like all I do is take care of other people. If I didn’t get out once in a while, I seriously think I’d lose my mind. Oh, look, Marco’s back.” She grinned up at him, all but purring. “That for me, sugar?” He set down Missy’s margarita and a fresh basket of chips, then took Christy-Lynn’s drink order, flashing an Antonio Banderas smile as he turned to leave. “Good grief,” Dar huffed when Marco was safely out of earshot. “I thought you were going to start stuffing dollar bills down his pants.” Missy’s mossy-green eyes gleamed mischievously. “Jealous?” Dar shook her head slowly, like a teacher with an incorrigible student. “Not everyone’s looking for tall, dark, and handsome. Some of us are looking for substance, someone capable of holdi...

Monck’s Corner, South Carolina August 9, 1994 Christy-Lynn’s gaze slides to the girl walking beside her—the new girl. She has a terrible overbite and a head full of wiry red hair. She’s also covered with freckles. None of these things are her fault, of course, but that hasn’t stopped the kids at Berkeley High from slapping a bull’s-eye on her back and labeling her a freak. It isn’t fair. You can’t help who your parents are—or the genes they saddle you with. She jerks her eyes away as the girl turns to look at her. She’s used to being invisible, to simply not being seen, so it’s a little weird that Linda Neely has suddenly wandered into her usually empty orbit. It had taken some time for Linda to finally speak, almost two weeks, but eventually, after days of hovering in the lunchroom and in study hall, she had startled Christy-Lynn by blurting out her story. Her family had moved from Norfolk because her father had been transferred to Trident, in North Charleston. She didn’t have any friends, and she was having trouble in most of her classes, especially English. Her father was threatening to send her

back to private school—the kind run by nuns—if she didn’t get her grades up by her next report card. It’s hard not to feel sorry for her. After five moves in three years, Christy-Lynn knows what it’s like to be the new girl, the one everyone stares at and whispers about. The outsider. But over the years, she’s gotten used to it, even gotten good at it if there’s such a thing. Which is why it feels weird to be bringing home a classmate to help her with her term paper. It’s not like she doesn’t have the time—her own paper has been finished for a week—or that she minds really. Words are her thing. She likes the way they feel, the way they taste. It’s just . . . weird. New weird. Awkward weird. They’re cutting across the parking lot now, past a dumpster overflowing with beer cans and dirty diapers, and cars that haven’t moved in months. Christy-Lynn wonders if there’s any food in the apartment. She doubts it. There’s rarely money for cookies or chips these days. Please, God, let there at least be some real Coke; not the generic stuff her mother brings home when cash is low and there are still five days till payday. Linda Neely might be unfortunate-looking with her freckles and her big teeth, but her Fossil watch and trendy Dr. Martens are clearly not from Goodwill. They’re climbing the steps now, three slabs of broken concrete with weeds growing out of the cracks. From the apartment above, Reba McEntire’s “Fancy” bleeds through the broken screen, along with the high-pitched wa...

Christy-Lynn is still trying to think of something to say when she realizes the apartment door is ajar. She nudges it open with her knee and peers in. The curtains are drawn, the TV off. Nothing out of place. She breathes a sigh of relief. Not a break-in then. Just her mother, running late as usual and not paying attention when she left for work. Christy-Lynn holds the door open as Linda steps across the threshold. She’s never brought anyone home, and suddenly she wishes she hadn’t today. The apartment is shabby and small, and the greasy scent of tater tots and fried onions lingers in the air from last night’s supper. She wonders briefly as she lets her book bag slide to the floor what Linda’s house smells like. Fried chicken, probably, or pork chops. Biscuits and gravy. Green beans with ham hocks and red velvet cake. Linda is still clutching her book bag, eyes round in the gloom as she slowly takes in her surroundings, and Christy-Lynn is struck by how it must look to a stranger seeing it for the first time. The dingy shag carpet, worn to the jute in places. The rump-sprung couch left by the previous tenants, the battered coffee table that has seen too many moves. The lamp with...

“I thought you said your mother wasn’t home.” Christy-Lynn turns back to her guest. “What?” “Your mother—I thought you said she’d be at work.” “She is.” Linda jerks her chin at the floor. “Is that her stuff?” Christy-Lynn follows Linda’s gaze to the trail of items strewn on the carpet: purse, shoes, keys, jacket. They look like they’ve been discarded hastily. But that doesn’t make sense. Her mother never misses work. At least not for a while now—not since she dumped Shane Taylor and got hired at the Piggly Wiggly. But Charlene Parker has been feeling a little off lately and looking a little off too, since she started picking up bartending shifts at the Getaway Lounge, burning the candle at both ends to keep the rent paid and the lights on. And then Christy-Lynn catches a whiff of something sour over the lingering aroma of last night’s supper. It’s acidic and vaguely familiar, like the stench of spoiled milk. She knows that smell, knows what it is and what it means. There’s a moan from somewhere down the hall, a low, grating sound that sends a chill down Christy-Lynn’s spine. It comes again, louder now, ending in a series of coughs and spluttered retches. Something hot and hideou...

Charlene lifts her head, her pale face a ruin. “Baby . . . I’m sick.” Her voice is thick and slurred, her eyes unfocused. And then suddenly she’s scrambling onto all fours, back arched as she retches emptily into the bowl, heaving as if she’s trying to turn herself inside out. Panicked, Christy-Lynn drops down on one knee, doing her best to avoid the splatters of yellow-green goo that seem to be everywhere. The mingled reek of alcohol and bile is overpowering. By the time the retching finally subsides, her mother’s face has become a blur. Christy-Lynn swipes impatiently at her tears, but they keep coming, running unchecked down her cheeks. “You promised, Mama. You said no more.” Her mother’s eyes open slowly, heavy lidded as she drags a hand across her mouth. “Thirsty . . .” It’s little more than a cracked whisper, and for a moment, Christy-Lynn’s anger turns to pity. She is reaching for the glass on the sink when she notices that her mother is still wearing her bartending clothes—jeans and a skimpy black tank top—instead of her cashier’s uniform. Had she not even bothered to come home last night? “Mama, how long have you been here like this?” “Thiiiirrrsty!” Charlene wails like...

the sight of a grown woman whimpering like a baby on the bathroom floor. Christy-Lynn blinks at her, her throat suddenly full of razor blades. “My mother’s sick,” she manages, struggling against the fresh round of tears she will not let come. “You’d better go.” Linda nods slowly, her expression part horror, part fascination. “Sure. Yeah.” She backs slowly out of the doorway, unable to tear her eyes away. “See ya in class.” Christy-Lynn says nothing, wondering as Linda backs away how long it will take for the story to spread through the halls of Berkeley High. Then she looks down at her mother, asleep or very near to it, her sticky dark hair fanned out on the bathroom t...

Sweetwater, Virginia November 29, 2016 Christy-Lynn stared at the sea of papers scattered about her on the bed, documents hastily scooped from Stephen’s safe the night she left Clear Harbor. The idea had been to get them into some kind of order. Sadly, they were more of a mess than when she’d started. Last night’s dinner with Missy and Dar had been a pleasant surprise, but when Dar asked if she’d given any thought to what her future plans might be, she had frozen. The truth was she hadn’t the foggiest idea. She had her editing business—ten or twelve clients she had cultivated over the years—but that could hardly be described as a life. Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure what she had shared with Stephen even qualified as a life. She’d been living with her head in the sand and not just since his death. But she couldn’t just keep hiding. Downstairs, Missy was closing up her kitchen and seeing to her guests, while Dar was somewhere downtown, selling crystals and new age books. Life was going on all around her—without

without her. The time had come to take her head out of the sand and face what needed facing. The insurance would have to be sorted out, the bank accounts and other financial assets seen to, the house in Clear Harbor closed up and sold. The thought startled her, but she suddenly knew she wouldn’t be going back. There was nothing there for her. No family to comfort her. No friends to miss. Nothing but empty memories. It was time to wrap things up and move on. But before she could do any of that, she was going to need Stephen’s death certificate. It took a moment to power up her laptop and connect to the inn’s Wi-Fi. The connection was agonizingly sluggish, but eventually she was able to type Maine death certificate into her browser’s search bar. The page blinked briefly, and a list of options appeared. She clicked on a site for the Maine Division of Public Health and followed the prompts. It all seemed remarkably simple until the RECORD NOT FOUND message popped up in bold red letters. She stared at it a moment, then tried again, only to receive the same message. Frustrated, she reached for her cell and dialed the Clear Harbor Police Station. She was put on hold while they connected her to the medical examiner’s office, but eventually a man picked up, his voice brusque as he droned through a list of questions. And then she was back on hold again. After a few moments, he came back on the line. “I’m sorry, but that certificate hasn’t been filed yet.” “I don’t understand. It’s b...