Free The Tidewater Sisters: Postlude to The Prayer Box by Lisa Wingate Page B

easier subjects as we finish the plates, then stack them in green-painted cabinets that look the same as they did when Laura’s parents lived here. It’s easy to tell by looking that Laura isn’t much on decorating. The house bears the evidence of constant, semi-chaotic activity. It is what it has always been—the sort of place where there’s no need to worry about damaging anything. The sort of place that’s meant to be lived in.
    Laura lets out a soft laugh as she closes the cabinet. “You know, when Bean brought you here, and I realized who you were, I sort of wished Luke wasn’t out in the field. After the kids saw you there at the house again, I sent my brother down on purpose. I guess I just thought . . .”
    A preschooler runs through, and Laura grabs a towel and does an expert whiplash swat, making the little boy dodge and squeal. Laura finishes the thought finally. “I don’t know, I got this wild feeling that maybe you and Luke . . . that maybe something would change for him because you came here. I’ve told him over and over that I don’t blame him for the accident and what happened. But no matter what I say and no matter where he goes, it isn’t quite what he needs. He just seems . . . lost. I don’t understand why. I’ve committed a lot of hopes and prayers to that over the years, but so far the answers haven’t come.”
    I feel an odd sort of pressure to somehow be the answer to those prayers, but I know I’m not. I have a life of my own on Hatteras, and it’s full. It’s happy. There are a hundred selfish reasons why I don’t want to take on Luke’s problems. I can’t, anyway. I’ve finally come to fully understand that you can’t fix another person. Youcan’t fix the past. You can only change your way of reacting to it.
    You have to wait for other people to fix themselves.
    “I’m sorry.” I can’t think of what else to say.
    “Oh, goodness, don’t be.” Laura waves the regrets away like smoke. “That’s just me being dreamy eyed. There’s a lot of my mother in me.” She abruptly moves to a new question. “So listen, did you talk to your sister today? What did she say? Did you find out anything more about what’s going on? We’d sure like to know when we’re going to be locked off the land and whether we’ll be able to bring in our crops first.”
    It’s the perfect segue into asking her about the farm rentals over the years, and the conversation drifts naturally. But in the back of my mind, the other track keeps playing. It repeats to the point that I don’t stay for ice cream after dinner when the men and kids tumble back in from the barn.
    I purposely say my good-byes while Luke’s outside, taking one of the kids to the shed to return a smuggled kitten. But he walks around the house just as I’m about to put the vehicle in reverse.
    I roll down the window and wait while he comes to the car. “Gotta go?” he asks.
    “Yes. Have to plan my strategy. Laura gave me some good ammunition.” I pat a stack of copies of rental checks and lease contracts from years past.
    A worry line curves Luke’s forehead. “Call if you need anything, okay? A little muscle . . . electric cattle prod . . . accomplice. We could kidnap her and lock her in the old granary again.”
    The picture makes me laugh, and of course the thread pulls up with several other memories attached. I don’t mention them because I know where we’ll end up if I do. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”
    “I mean it. Anything you need.” His eyes meet mine, as compelling and sky-blue as ever. I wonder what he’s seeing. Does he see the girl he used to know?
    I want to say the same thing back to him, but I can’t give Luke what he needs. “Take care of yourself, okay?” Tears press unexpectedly and my voice trembles.
    He shrugs off the request. “You know me—wherever I end up, I always land on my feet.” Something about the way he says it tells me that whenever I do come back to the