43 Addison

Later...

Her father died three days before Thanksgiving, and the extended family descended on her dad's town house like worker bees. Uncle Frank and Aunt Adel stoked the kitchen for forty-eight hours, filling the house with the smell of kibbeh, baba ghanoush, and cabbage rolls. Sara Caroline made stuffed grape leaves for the first time in her life and Preston learned to love baklava. So many of Daddy's old friends from Central High and Ole Miss—even the retired chancellor—driving up to the service at Our Lady of Perpetual Help. A poster board photo of Sami Hassan in his Rebel football uniform, looking tough and focused as he ran toward the camera, flanked his casket. They wept, prayed, and ate. Many remembered her mother's quiet contributions and sacrifices. Aunt Adel sat on the tiny brick patio to share a cigarette and drink some arak, which tasted like chilled old licorice and made Addison wince a little. "When they were first married and you weren't yet born, your father lost everything. He lost his bar and your parents had to sell their home. Your father wouldn't take money from me or his brother. He started selling cars and worked at nights at Anderton's, cooking steaks and fish. He was so tired. He'd fall asleep at Mass on your mother's shoulder. I hope that's where he is now. Your father could never rest. His entire life."

And now it was Thanksgiving Day, many of the family and friends already come to pay their respects. It was just immediate family and the best of Sami's friends at the graveside at Elmwood. The rain and clouds had gone away that morning and Addison was sure someone would tell her the sun peeking out from a cloud was her father letting them know everything would be all right. And sure enough, when the sun shone bright on the casket, Aunt Adel looked up and smiled at her, nodding. Yes, Yes. A sign from above. Addison glanced in the other direction to Porter Hayes in his serious pin-striped suit. He'd looked up at the sun and then back at Addison and shrugged.

She and the kids had been staying at a Marriott Courtyard on Germantown Road. They'd soon clear out her father's town house and live there until the Central Gardens home sold. Their realtor called Addison minutes after her father took his last breath wondering if she'd be okay with getting a contractor to fix the kitchen and the bullet holes in the ceiling.

A priest finished his reading at the graveside. Uncle Frank stepped up and read something in Arabic. A few close friends from the Cedars Club dabbed their eyes. They lowered the casket and Addison looked around the rolling grass hills of thousands and thousands of? headstones, obelisks, and concrete angels. The cemetery a beautiful fucking downer despite the sunshine. Her father's name now on the same marble slab as her mother's. Story over. Turn the page and move on. That would be a hell of a lot easier if she knew even a little more about the man who'd fathered her children and shared her bed for fifteen years.

Now Dean McKellar—whoever he was—was a man on the run. The police, the FBI, and Homeland Security had all paid her a visit after a big shooting at a casino in Tunica. For a week, she'd kept the kids out of school, but it had been her father who'd told her to hold her head up and just keep walking. Let them throw their stones and talk behind your back. Nothing will hurt you if you and the children keep walking. Don't look back, Addy. Ever.

Addison held Preston's hand as she made her way through the headstones of decades and decades of dead Memphians. Politicians, soldiers, blues singers, even a famous madam who helped the sick and dying during the yellow fever epidemic. Somewhere was Boss Crump. And over the hill was Ma Rainey. It was black, white, enslaved, and slave owner. And now the grounds held a white woman from the Delta and the son of a man who came to this country with nothing, barely able to speak English. Down the hill and on the winding road through the headstones and the trees, she spotted Porter Hayes. He was standing next to the brand-new Mercedes sedan she'd insisted on buying him. At first, he wouldn't take it, but it was his straight-talking secretary Darlene who called him a bullheaded fool if he didn't.

Hayes had on a long black coat over his suit and leather gloves. In the weeks since Dean's disappearance, he and a CPA he trusted had walked her through the files they'd found in Dean's secret room. The good news was that Dean had put a massive amount of his holdings in Addison's name to hide it away over the years. It wasn't the kind of money Porter said he hoped to find, but it would "keep the kids in private school and pay those country club dues."

But she dropped the Club. She was selling the big Central Gardens house. She didn't want any of it—the jewelry (except for what had been her mother's), most of the clothes, the cars, the photos of the outrageous family vacations. The thought of what Dean had done for all that expensive garbage, killing people or having people killed, made her want to puke. If she and Libby were speaking, she'd invite her over for a big bonfire of all Dean's junk. His hunting clothes and bespoke suits and six pairs of cowboy boots with outrageously tall heels. What a vain little prick.

"I think ole Sam would've liked the service," Hayes said. "I don't speak Arabic, but it sounded real nice."

Addison introduced Preston to him. Sara Caroline was saying goodbye to her aunt and uncle. Addison had planned the funeral without their input—her shrewd father had made her executor of his estate.

"You don't think he opened up the heavens with the sun?" she asked.

"Miss Hassan," Hayes said, peering up at the beams shooting from the clouds, "I been on this earth nearly seventy years. What I've learned is that nobody knows nothing."

Addison looked down the rows of cars on the crooked road out of the cemetery. Libby with the twins and goddamn Branch. She waved to Addison and Addison nodded back.

"You got somewhere to go after this?" Hayes said.

"My brother invited us over for Thanksgiving dinner," she said. "With some family who flew in."

"Glad to hear you patched things up."

"I wouldn't go that far," Addison said. "I may drop off the kids. But I'm not going. Libby hires the worst caterers in the business. Everything looks pretty, but it doesn't have any flavor."

Porter Hayes stood in the open door of his new Mercedes. The polished hood and modern headlights suited him. "Y'all like turkey necks?"

"Excuse me?"

"Smoked turkey necks," he said. "In gravy. Candied yams. Mac and cheese. Collard greens. That type of thing."

Preston tugged at the sleeve of her dress. She looked down at her son, seeing so much of her father in his face. Preston seemed interested in Porter's offer. Sara Caroline walked slowly toward them. Some of the cars and SUVs pulled out on the narrow blacktop and headed out the Elmwood's ornate metal gates. "Change of plans," Addison said.

"Again?" Sara Caroline said. "Awesome."

They ate a big buffet meal at a place called the Gay Hawk over on Danny Thomas. Her father would've liked that. He had a lot of love and respect for the late entertainer as he'd also been Lebanese. Her father attributed a lot of his success to looking up to Danny Thomas as a kid. She could still hear him: His real name was Amos Kairouz.From Detroit but came here for St. Jude. That man did so much good, Addy.

Hayes pulled a few tables together in a back room decorated with a big painting of Martin Luther King Jr. Soon they were joined by his son, Randy, and daughter, Nina. Nina had two boys, teenagers, but they ate up front by the cash registers with some cousins. One of the young boys looked almost identical to his grandfather. His name was Porter, too.

The cinder block building was short and squat, only a few blocks over from the housing projects. On the way in, Hayes gave a homeless man five dollars to watch his new car in the parking lot. Addison didn't feel like eating. She felt hollowed out. But she picked at the turkey necks and a few candied yams. She would've killed for a glass of white wine but even thinking about it made her feel absolutely ridiculous.

When Preston got up for seconds and Sara Caroline was engaged in a conversation with Nina, Porter leaned over and asked, "You hearing anything on your ex?"

"I still don't know who he was," she said. "Really."

"Does it matter now?"

"Would be nice to know a name."

"But you know the man," Hayes said. "His character."

"What character?"

Hayes got up from the table, announcing that Mr. Bobo was putting out some banana pudding. "Hadn't you had enough, Daddy?" Nina said, smirking. "You know this isn't a competition."

Nina looked over at Addison and smiled. Addison felt good being among Porter Hayes's family, knowing that he'd meant so much to her father. She figured maybe she'd work things out with Libby. Damn, it was hard to stay mad at Libby. But Branch? That was an altogether different issue. What apology could he possibly offer? Not that he had even tried. Sorry, Addison, I helped your fraud of a husband kidnap you and put you in an abusive rehab, if it even was real rehab at all, and I helped him spread the word that you were crazy. My bad.

"You ready?" Hayes asked, looking at Addison as he leaned down and kissed his daughter on the cheek.

Hayes drove them back to the funeral home in Germantown where she'd parked her car. As she got out, Hayes reached up to the visor and handed her a CD. "My son burned this for you," he said. "Figured you might like to hear some of the tracks my late wife sang on. Back in the day."

Sara Caroline opened up the Escalade's passenger door and Preston followed, lying down in the seat behind her. Addison had done her best to shield her kids from the worst about Dean but they definitely knew. She just kept trying to move ahead like she'd promised her dad. Keep moving. Don't ever look back, or the bastards will catch you.

Addison offered her hand to Porter Hayes. "Are you ever going to send me your final invoice?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"Paid in full?"

Hayes looked at his shiny new Mercedes and nodded. "And then some. Here, take a few business cards. You know. For your rich-ass friends."

She pocketed the cards, hugged the man tight, and walked back to the Escalade. Addison watched as Hayes headed west toward downtown, and then she headed east back to her father's town house. It would take her weeks to make that place livable, but at least she'd be free of all things Dean. There had been almost as many questions about Alec Dawson from the detectives as there had been about her stupid-ass husband. She'd found out Alec no longer owned his house and that Dawson-Gray had gone into bankruptcy nine months ago. Poor Ellie. Poor sweet Ellie.

As they drove, Sara Caroline studied the CD Porter had given her—no label or markings—and turned on the stereo. "I Only Want to Be with You" started to blare from the speakers. Jesus God. Addison didn't say a word, driving with her left hand as she punched eject with her right. Hootie and the Blowfish spit out of the stereo, and she caught the disc in her hand, let down her window, and tossed it out.

"That's littering," Sara Caroline said.

"Is it?"

Sara Caroline put in Porter's CD and Addison heard the smooth, silky voice of a man singing. But now I'm as different as sunshine is to rain. Porter Hayes's wife, Genevieve, singing the chorus. Not like I used to be. Not like I used be.