Page 27 of Just a Number (Magnolia Row #2)

RHODES

I ’m asleep in my hotel room on Broadway when my phone rings. I only half-acknowledge it, part of me thinking the buzzing is a dream.

When it doesn’t stop, I rub my eyes and look at the screen, which is blurry without my contacts.

The sound of laughter and drunken voices from the nearby country bars echoes below my window as I stare at Micah’s picture illuminated in the darkness.

It’s three in the morning. Something must be wrong.

“Hello?” I answer, my voice tired. All I hear on the other end are sobs. Micah’s sobs.

My heart drops. I know what this means.

The last few times I’ve been to Magnolia Row, her grandmother had been looking more and more frail. I was afraid she wasn’t long for this world. That’s the only explanation for the hysterical cries I’m hearing on the other end of the line.

“Micah,” I say, as soft and smooth as I can. “Micah, it’s okay. I’m here.” She keeps crying. I repeat, over and over, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

When her breath stabilizes, she finally speaks. “I’m sorry to call you so late,” she says with a shaky voice. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I know, sweetie. Calm down. We’ll figure it out.”

She sighs hard. “I think I’m in shock,” she says.

“It’s okay. That’s normal.”

“They took her away, and I’m sitting here alone. You’re the only person I could think of to call.”

I sit up in bed. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I say. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

This makes her start crying hard again, and I simply hold the phone and listen to her until she’s ready to talk. God, I wish I hadn’t gone to this stupid wedding. I should’ve known something like this would happen, and now I’m six hours away.

“I’ll be fine until tomorrow,” she says. “I’m sorry I bothered you in the middle of the night.”

“It is tomorrow,” I say. “And it’s no bother at all. I’m glad I’m the first person you called. If I leave Nashville now, I can be there by ten in the morning. I’ll help you with everything. I went through this when my mom passed.”

“Thank you, Rhodes. I…” She hesitates, her voice panicked and cracked. “I’m so lost.”

“I know. But I’ll hold your hand through everything. We’ll get through it together. In the meantime, call Sistine or Patsy if you need anything before I get there.”

“I will. I may wait until the sun comes up, at least.”

“Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Bye, Rhodes.”

“Bye, Micah.”

Without so much as yawning, I roll out of bed, take a quick shower to wake myself, throw my things in my bag, and check out as quickly as I can. When I get to my SUV, I tell the GPS to take me to Magnolia Row, and I’m on the road before the sun rises.

* * *

A fter a quick stop in Birmingham to pick up some extra clothes, I make my way to south Alabama.

When I pull up to Micah’s house, there are several cars in the driveway.

I park and walk to the patio door, where I can see Sistine and Patsy talking in the living room. They wave me in as soon as I get there.

“She’s on the phone with her mother,” Sistine whispers, pointing to Micah, who is sitting at the dining room table, back to us, with her hand over her face and her phone to her ear.

We stand in silence and wait, trying to make out what she’s saying. Finally, she puts the phone down and rubs her face.

I step into the dining room and put my hand on her shoulder. When she turns to look at me, a flood of relief comes over her and she stands to hug me. I squeeze her as tight as I can, and she leans on me while she quietly cries into my shirt.

“I’m sorry you had to drive all this way,” she says.

“It’s okay,” I say. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

I release my hug and kiss her on the forehead. She looks up to me with swollen eyes.

“My mother is coming,” she says, her voice low and full of dread.

“And cue the drama,” says Sistine, who is standing in the doorway.

“That’s alright, girl,” says Patsy. “You got a tribe behind you.”

Micah nods and leans into my shoulder. Patsy’s right. Even without blood relatives, she still has people who love and care about her. She has the family she chose, the ones who continue to choose her.

* * *

T hat day, we go through the motions of meeting with the funeral director and the pastor from the church.

It turns out Ms. Barbara planned and paid for everything long before she died, right down to the flowers and hymns she wanted.

All Micah has to do is get a copy of the contract to make sure she doesn’t want to add anything.

The house is incredibly busy. Everyone in town wants to stop by with casseroles and flowers.

I probably meet half of Magnolia Row in the span of eight hours, and each time someone asks if I’m Micah’s boyfriend, I laugh awkwardly and say we’re getting to know each other.

Honestly, I’m not sure what else to say.

We haven’t exactly defined anything, and now is not the time for me to force the issue.

I offer to stay at the local hotel to give Micah space, but she insists I not leave her, so I don’t. I put my things in the guest room, but for the next two nights I sleep with her in her bed, though the physical contact never goes beyond kissing. She’s not ready to go further.

The morning of the funeral arrives and Micah hasn’t slept at all. The rising sun casts a soft orange hue on the curtains as we’re laying in bed, talking. The house is as quiet as a church, so I’m startled and sit straight up when I hear the side door open and keys clang on the kitchen counter.

“Oh God,” Micah says, her eyes closed. “She’s here.”

I know she means her mother without even asking. She gets up and tiptoes out the door. She’s still in her floral pajama pants and a hoodie from Victoria’s Secret. I follow, wearing my comfy pants and an Auburn University College of Architecture t-shirt.

Piles of bags dot the living room floor, and I can tell from Micah’s expression she’s already annoyed. The side door is open, and her mother is dragging in more stuff to dump in the living room amongst the dozens of plants and flowers Micah has received in the past few days.

If I didn’t already know who she was, I never would peg her as Micah’s mom.

She’s short where Micah is tall. She’s very skinny, lacking all the curves Micah has, and has chin-length, straight dark hair.

The shape of their noses and eyes are the same, but that’s where the similarities end.

Her chaotic energy makes me anxious, and I can tell Micah too is frazzled.

“Mother,” she says. “You’re here.”

“Micah.” Her mom puts a hand on her hip and gives Micah a once-over. “You look like hell.”

Micah shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

“Come on, give me a hug,” the mother says, reaching out. She grabs her and squeezes, though Micah barely reciprocates the gesture. “Who are you?” the mom says, looking at me.

“I’m Rhodes,” I say.

“Christa Bonaventure,” she says, eyeing me with suspicion.

“Mom, this is my, um, my friend. Rhodes Cauley.” Apparently I’m not the only one who struggles to define our relationship.

“By the looks of it, he’s more than a friend.”

“That’s really none of your business,” says Micah. “Besides, don’t you have your own new relationship to worry about?”

“It’s kind of a wait and see thing.”

“I thought you were living together and playing stepmom to his kids.”

Her mother shrugs and offers no further explanation.

I look at the mounds of stuff and it suddenly hits me—she did not pack for a short trip. I peer out the window to her small car, and it’s full to the brim. She has no intention of leaving.

Micah seems to have this realization the same time I do. She shakes her head.

“I can’t deal with this right now,” she says, walking to her bedroom. I turn to follow her.

We close the door, and in the background we hear bustling and bumping as her mom moves more stuff into the house.

“She seriously can’t be moving in,” Micah says.

“It looks like she intends to,” I say. “Micah, all you need to do is get through today. You can worry about that later.”

I want to ask if her grandmother had a will, or if there were any talks about what happens to her home and the store when she passed.

I wonder whose name is on the deeds, and if her mom has access to bank accounts that should, in all fairness, go to Micah.

But now is not the time, so I table that conversation.

I just hope Ms. Barbara foresaw this happening. Surely she knew her own daughter.

I go to the kitchen to get a bottle of water and to give Micah some privacy while she gets ready for the funeral.

The visitation starts at ten, followed by a graveside service and lunch at the local Presbyterian Church.

Before visitation, Sistine suggested we come to Bonny Beans for coffee and breakfast, so that’s our plan.

Patsy and Kendall are also supposed to meet us there.

Her mother says nothing to me as I watch her drag bag after bag back to Micah’s grandmother’s bedroom. My heart sinks. It’s not my place to say anything, but I know this will upset Micah.

I look out the back window. As I drink my water, two deer, a doe and a faun, wander through the back yard.

The sun casts a hazy yellow glow over the dead winter grass and a cold breeze rustles the brittle leaves in the magnolia tree at the back of the yard.

Despite the tension in the house, the world outside is at peace.

Once I finish my water, I proceed down the hall and find the bathroom door open, where Micah is finishing her make-up.

Her hair is curled and her face is flawless despite her puffy eyes.

She’s wearing a black sweater dress with white trim, leggings, and boots.

Her bright red lipstick pops against the dark colors.

For a woman in mourning, she’s a vision.

She catches me watching. “Patsy brought me waterproof mascara,” she says. “I’ll need it today.”

Her mom walks to the bathroom in a huff and asks how much longer she’ll be.

“I don’t know,” Micah says, her voice curt and flat.

I know Micah has told me time and time again about her mother, but this coldness and complete disregard for empathy is so much worse than I’d imagined.

Her mother walks back to Ms. Barbara’s bedroom and closes the door.

“Is she moving into Nana’s room?” Micah asks.

“I think so,” I say, studying her face for a reaction.

She looks sad, shaking her head and turning her attention to her eye makeup.

She puts the final touches on her lashes, gives me a hug, then tells me to hop in the shower before her mother can take the bathroom.

She goes to the guest room and fetches my toiletry bag and clothes while I fiddle with the water temperature.

“I can’t tell you how much it means to me for you to be here,” she says.

I nod. “I know, Micah.”

She smiles, gives me a kiss, then leaves me alone to undress and shower.

When I emerge from the bathroom, I’m dressed and ready to go. Micah is in the living room staring out the window, her face completely blank. When she realizes I’m there, she stands and grabs her purse.

“We’re leaving!” she calls down the hall to her mother, who pops her head out of the bedroom.

“So the bathroom is free?”

Micah rolls her eyes and says nothing.

Heavy footsteps plod down the hallway. For a tiny woman, Micah’s mother is loud.

“I thought the visitation started at ten,” she says, poking her head into the living room. She’s wearing nothing but a bra and shorts, and I turn my eyes so she doesn’t think I’m trying to stare.

“We’re meeting my friends for breakfast.”

There’s an awkward pause. “Nice dress,” her mom says, as if surprised. “That’s a good cut for a big girl.”

I glance at Micah and she looks down, embarrassed.

“You can’t—" I begin, ready to admonish this woman for talking like that to her daughter, but Micah cuts me off.

“It’s not worth it,” she whispers to me. “Goodbye, Mother,” she says.

And with that, we turn to leave.

On the drive to the coffee shop, I tell Micah several times how beautiful she is, but she shakes her head and puts her hand up as if telling me to stop talking, so I do. I know her mom got under her skin, and there’s nothing I can do or say to make it okay.

I wish I could make this entire nightmare disappear for her. It’s beyond difficult to watch.