The Sound of Glass by Karen White Read Free Book Online

surrounded by potted flowers that seemed to have run amok, was a pretty curved wooden bench with a high back and wide arms big enough to rest a glass of lemonade or a cup of tea on.
    I touched it, wondering who this Cal had been. My Cal claimed to have no knowledge of how to wield a hammer or nail. Or how to plant living things and make them grow.
    I looked around at the wild beauty of the garden, imagining Cal there. “You said Cal used to help Edith with the garden?”
    Mr. Williams nodded. “Yes. He’d do all the heavy lifting for her, but he also liked to help with the planting.” He paused, as ifmeasuring his words. “He said it was the only place he could find that would calm his soul.”
    Our eyes met, and I couldn’t help but wonder to what extent Mr. Williams knew of Cal’s troubled soul. And to what lengths Cal would go to find the peace he so desperately sought.
    I looked away, not wanting to know the answer, and my eye touched on the statue of a saint standing lopsided between two billowing rosebushes, one of its hands missing.
    “Saint Michael,” Mr. Williams provided.
    “The protector,” I added quietly. “Cal put a small Saint Michael by our front door.” I stared at the stone face, at the eyes turned heavenward, knowing why Cal had thought we needed one. And wondering why his grandmother had thought the same thing.
    I bent to smell a rose, its scent pungent in the afternoon heat. “Were Cal and his brother close?”
    I felt Mr. Williams shrug before turning to look at him. “They were ten years apart, so Cal was raised almost like an only child. It must have been a shock for him when Gibbes arrived. But even if they’d been closer in age, I don’t know how close they might have been. Cal was like his father. Very . . . physical. Both were high school football stars—did Cal tell you that?”
    I shook my head, pretending to examine the roses more closely.
    He continued. “And Gibbes was more like their mother. More introspective and inquisitive. Before his job took over his life he was big into sailing—did a great deal of it in high school—loves the complexities of cheating the wind, I suppose. No time for it anymore, but he and my sons still spend time on the water when they can.” He chuckled softly. “I taught Cal and Gibbes how to play chess, thinking it was something they could do together. It was a terrible idea, of course. Cal would start off using his queen to barrel through his opponent’s pawns and then lose her early on. Gibbes would strategize his next five moves and win the game in six. Most of their games ended with Cal throwing the board across the room.”
    My finger stung, and when I looked down at it I saw I’d pricked it on a thorn. I sucked on the pad, tasting copper and remembering Cal. Squeezing my finger and thumb together to stop the bleeding, I said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking these questions. I’m sure it seems odd to you that Cal never told me anything. I don’t blame him. Really, I don’t. I was relieved, I think, because then that gave me the excuse to never talk about my own past.”
    “You have no family,” he said, his face so sympathetic that I felt the sting of tears and had to look away.
    “No,” I said, turning my head so that I faced the stone saint. “How did their parents die?”
    He took a deep breath. “Their mama, Cecelia, fell down the stairs and broke her neck. It was New Year’s Eve and she was wearing a long gown. C.J., their daddy, said he thought her heel had caught in the back of the skirt. She was dead by the time he reached the bottom of the steps. Gibbes was only five and Cal fifteen—terrible ages to lose a mother. C.J. died three years later. He was a heavy drinker and smoker, so it was no surprise that he died of a heart attack at forty-six. But my wife believes he died of a broken heart.”
    I nodded silently, wondering whether such a thing was possible and wishing that something Mr. Williams had told me