Trouble Don’t Last Always Read Online Free Page B

the teachers and the funeral home owners were the rich black people and, although they went to work every day, they were in a different social group from Lilly and her truck-driving husband. She couldn’t imagine the owner of this place having a nine-to-five job or worries about the mortgage.
    Stepping off the paved road onto the thick green grass, Lilly cut across the yard to the back of the house. Some people didn’t like the hired help or service people coming to the front door. She wasn’t either, but she wasn’t an invited guest, either. One thing Lilly knew was how to keep her place. Another lesson courtesy of Myron.
    Rounding the corner of the house, she pulled up short. Two well-dressed black women stood at the bottom of the wooden steps leading into a side entrance to the house. They were deep in conversation. The older woman was of average height and appeared to be in her late fifties. She wore a cream-colored blouse and pants. Her stylishly short reddish-brown hair complemented her attractive cinnamon-hued skin. She kept wiping the corners of her eyes with a white handkerchief.
    The younger woman’s lips were pressed together as if she fought her own battle with tears. Model-thin and a head taller than the other woman, she wore a sleeveless black shell and trousers. Silver hoop earrings twisted with each movement of her head. Smooth bangs brushed the slim arch of her brows. The rest of her bone-straight hair fell to the middle of her back.
    Behind them the screen door burst open. Both women turned. Out came a tall, beautiful woman in her early thirties wearing a tangerine-colored linen pantsuit.
    The door banged shut. The wind had picked up, carrying with it the scent of magnolias, but Lilly didn’t think it had caused the door to slam.
    “He’s impossible!” cried the woman coming down the white-painted steps.
    The older woman clutched the handkerchief tighter. “Nicole, he still insists we leave?”
    “Yes, Mrs. Wakefield.” The answer was clipped and final.
    Mrs. Wakefield’s head lowered.
    Wide-eyed, the youngest woman stared from one to the other, then back toward the door. “But we can’t leave.”
    “Try telling that to Adam, Kristen,” Nicole said, folding her arms, her heavily lashed eyelids blinking rapidly, her magenta glossed lips tightly compressed.
    Mrs. Wakefield’s mouth curved upward in a strained smile; then she took Kristen’s agitated hand in hers. “Don’t worry. We’ll find a way.”
    “How?” Kristen cried.
    The women traded glances, but none spoke.
    “Excuse me. Maybe I can help,” Lilly offered before she thought better of interfering.
    Three pairs of startled eyes turned to her. Fear quickly gave way to other emotions in their faces. Kristen’s was weary, Nicole’s suspicious, Mrs. Wake-field’s curious.
    “Who are you and what are you doing here?” Nicole asked, stepping forward.
    Lilly clamped her hands together to keep from retreating. This wasn’t Myron using his size to intimidate and abuse for the simple reason that he could. This woman had a right to demand answers. Trespassing was bad enough, but Lilly had compounded her bad manners by eavesdropping as well.
    “Lilly. Lilly Crawford. My car broke down about two miles from here. This is the first house I passed, and I wanted to see if anyone could help or if I could use the phone.”
    “Of course.” The older woman visibly relaxed. “I’m Eleanor Wakefield. This is my daughter, Kristen. Ms. Ashe is a family friend.” The nods of acknowledgment were brief. “Samuel, the groundskeeper, is off, but you can certainly use the phone.”
    “Thank you.”
    “I’ll show you where it is,” offered Kristen, quickly bounding up the four steps and opening the door.
    Lilly clamped her hand around the frayed strap of her purse and pushed the words out. “I–I couldn’t help but overhear some of your conversation.” She knew what it was like to feel helpless and without anywhere to go or turn. The women