Palmetto Moon Read Online Free Page A

a crossroads community so small, it doesn’t even have a road sign. The boardinghouse is there, just like my professor said it would be. Nothing fancy, but grand compared to the half dozen or so houses around. There’s a long clapboard building that claims to be a diner, a general store, and a post office.
    Desmond kills the engine. “I was thinking if you were running away, you might want to go a little farther from Charleston than fifty miles.”
    “There’s a job here.” I can’t believe this is really happening. “A teaching job.”
    “Well.” He looks around the place. “When your daddy starts looking for you, I can guarantee this is the last place he’ll look.”
    I throw my arms around him and breathe in the sweet scent of pipe tobacco one last time. “You need to go before someone sees us.”
    “No, ma’am. I’ll wait until this joint opens.”
    “No, Desmond. It’s dangerous enough that you’ll be driving back to Charleston so late. Look, there’s a porch swing. The sun will be up in a few hours; I’ll be safe there. Please, Desmond. For me.”
    He takes his hat off and fiddles with it. “Guess this is good-bye.”
    I nod and press a piece of paper into his hand. “For emergencies.”
    He stares at the paper, smiling. “Well now, you did plan this out.”
    “I had bits and pieces of a plan, but when I came home I stopped believing this was possible. I don’t know what I would have done if Rosa Lee hadn’t come to my room tonight, if you hadn’t brought me here. I owe you both so much, thank-you seems puny.”
    He looks at the boardinghouse address and phone number I’ve written down, rips the bottom half of the page off, and scribbles his brother’s address. “You need me or Rosa Lee, just let Charles know, and he’ll pass on the message. And don’t you worry none. Your secret’s safe with us.”
    It’s just before three when Desmond pulls away. I lean my back against the arm of the porch swing, ball my knees up to my chest, and pull the store-bought dress down over my ankles.

    The night air is thick and humid. Claire Greeley stands by the open window, bouncing her three-year-old boy back to sleep. She alternates between watching the two figures in the truck in the driveway and glaring at her older sons, Daniel and Peter, who are sound asleep in the twin bed next to hers. They look angelic in the bed they share with their baby brother, Jonathan, but right now, she’d love to pinch their heads off for telling the poor little guy stories about the boogieman.
    Jonathan makes a little grunt, like he used to when he was a baby. The sound makes Claire feel lonely and reminds her of everything her husband has missed. She breathes into the crook of the boy’s sweaty little neck, wishing she could catch a whiff of his baby smell just one last time. But at three, the scent is long gone, and when the child is awake, his sole focus is being a big boy like his brothers.
    The idea of Claire’s boys growing up leaves her exhausted, something she’s grown accustomed to since her husband died in the war. She isn’t exactly sure when the feeling set in, but she’s felt this way for so long, it’s hard to imagine what it would be like not to feel this way. At first, the exhaustion came from the grief, then anger, but at some point during the past four years, it’s come from sheer worry. While she worries about normal everyday things, like who those two figures are in the truck and what they want at this ungodly hour, mostly she worries about her boys.
    How long can they share this small room? One tiny bed? How long will she be able to make them follow all of Miss Mamie’s ridiculous rules? Up until now, it’s been easy to keep them in line. The fact that they’re all terrified of the old bat helps, but what about when they get older? The worst question doesn’t just keep Claire up at night; it follows her around every second of every day. How can she possibly make up for her boys not