The Secret Life of Ceecee Wilkes - By Diane Chamberlain Page 0,2
the hell do you mean, I’m off the Gleason story?” he shouted. “Call me!”
He tossed the receiver onto the bed, then pounded the top of the television with his fist as though he could make the news come on sooner through force. “I don’t believe this,” he said. “When I left the courthouse today, the jury hadn’t sentenced him yet and they were supposed to re-convene tomorrow. Maybe I heard it wrong. Maybe I missed the sentencing. Damn!”
Corinne looked down at the cell phone in her hand as she cycled through the list of callers. “I have five messages, all from my parents’ house,” she said. Something was wrong. “I’d better call—”
“Shh,” Ken said, turning up the volume as the brassy theme music introduced the news, and anchorman Paul Provost appeared on the screen.
“Good evening, Triangle,” Paul said, referring to the Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill area. “Just hours before Timothy Gleason was to be sentenced for the 1977 murder of Genevieve Russell and her unborn child, a shocking revelation shed doubt on his guilt.”
“What?” Ken stared at the TV.
Footage of a small arts-and-crafts-style bungalow filled the screen. The roof looked wet from a recent rain, and the trees were lush, the leaves just starting to turn.
“Is that…?” Corinne pressed her hand to her mouth. She knew exactly how the air smelled in the small front yard of the house. It would be thick and sweet with the damp arrival of autumn. “Oh, my God.”
Through the front door, a middle-aged woman limped onto the porch. She looked small and tired. And she looked scared.
“What the hell is going on?” Ken said.
Corinne stood next to him, clutching his arm, as her mother cleared her throat.
“Timothy Gleason is not guilty of murdering Genevieve Russell,” she said. “And I can prove it because I was there.”
CeeCee
Chapter Two
Dear CeeCee,
You’re sixteen now, the age I was when I got pregnant with you. Whatever you do, don’t do that! Seriously, I hope you’re much smarter and more careful than I was. No regrets, though. My life would have been so empty without you. You’re my everything, darling girl. Don’t ever forget that.
Chapel Hill, North Carolina
1977
“Good morning, Tim.” CeeCee poured coffee into his cup. He liked it black and very strong, and she’d added an extra scoop to the pot that morning that had other customers complaining.
“The morning was pretty good to begin with,” he said, “but seeing you puts the icing on the cake.” He leaned back in the corner booth, where he always sat, and smiled at her. He had one of those smiles that turned her brain to mush. She’d met him on her first day of work a little more than a month ago, and she’d promptly spilled hot coffee on him. She’d been mortified, but he’d laughed it off and tipped her more than the value of his breakfast. She fell for him right then.
All she knew about him could fit inside a coffee cup. To begin with, he was beautiful. The sunlight poured into the corner booth in the mornings, settling in the curls of his blond hair and turning his green eyes to stained glass. He dressed in jeans and T-shirts, like most Carolina students, but his clothing lacked any University of North Carolina logos even though he was a student there. He smoked Marlboros, and his table was always littered with books and papers. She liked that he was studious. Best of all, he made her feel pretty and smart and desirable, which was something she’d not experienced before. She wanted to bottle the feeling and carry it around with her.
She pulled her order pad and pencil from her jeans pocket. “Do you want your usual?” she asked, but she was thinking, I love you.
“Of course.” He took a sip of coffee, then pointed toward the front of the coffee shop. “Do you know that every time I walk through that door, I’m afraid you won’t be here?” he asked. “As soon as I come in, I look for your hair.” He’d told her that he loved her hair. She’d never cut it, and it fell in dark waves to the small of her back.
“I’m always here,” she said. “It’s like I live here.”
“You’re off on Saturdays, though,” he said. “You weren’t here last Saturday.”
“And you missed me?” Was she flirting? That would be a first.
He nodded. “Yes, but I was happy to see that you had some time off.”
“Well, not time off, really. I tutor on Saturdays.”