by Bea Bledsoe
Don’t Come Home
Bea Bledsoe
Copyright © 2019 by Bea Bledsoe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Dedication
For Karen, who makes every heart and every place her home.
Contents
Don’t Come Home
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
26. Epilogue
The End
Don’t Come Home
By
Bea Bledsoe
Epigraph
Magically, slowly, I fragment into small, gray pieces. Some take off in a wind gust to the west to finally rest among the wild raspberries. More settle under the elderberry bush near a black bear muzzle, purple with juice. Some rock to the left and right as they float downward, finally falling next to a white elk antler – shed last year down in the cool, dark draw.
Corinna German, Death Song Just Outside of Yellowstone
Prologue
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.
The rusted red truck flew over the snow-covered roads outside of Blackriver, angrily heaving itself over the drifts. Every few seconds the snow-chains would catch, and even then they could barely keep the truck from sliding off the road and into the icy water far below. The tires whined as Darlene Montgomery flooded the engine, pushing hard against the gas pedal with a string of muttered curses. She usually never cursed; but that was before, in a different life. The truck roared forward, its right tire dangerously close to the edge. Maybe she would ride the edge on her way back, unbuckle her seatbelt and let the truck sail off the side of the cliff.
She shook her head. That was a crazy thought. She’d had so many of them lately.
Darlene could hear those strange thoughts now, pulling at the back of her mind. She tried desperately not to think about what she was doing at that exact moment - that was the most important thing. Instead she thought about anything else as the truck shot up the mountain switchback: the best way to sear veal, the sunset over the range, the way her husband looked when he climbed off a horse. Her daughter’s rare smile. The truck took a hard turn and slid sideways, narrowly missing some trees beside the road. Darlene took a deep breath, her hands trembling on the wheel. She could do this. She had to make it to the place she couldn’t think of.
Ahead, the road curved sharply left, and ahead of that, there was an odd break in the tree line. Darlene slammed on the brakes and the truck skidded forward as it jerked to a violent halt. Without pausing to consider what she was doing, Darlene threw herself out of the car. Her thin grey housedress flapped helplessly in the frigid Wyoming air. She would freeze out here like this in less than an hour, but she didn’t care, not now. She had only one thing to do.
What do you have to do, Darlene?
The voice dripped with malice. She couldn’t think about this mailbox, the one that no one knew about. This mailbox, that was owned by a wealthy rancher in the hills who only visited twice a year. He would be here next month, which meant his mail would be picked up. Eventually.
Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Think about it.
With shaking hands, she pulled out the postcard and a pen from her pocket. It had to be done right now, on the spur on the moment. Otherwise…She bit her lip so hard it drew blood as she wrote out three words, only seconds before she began to lose control of the pen.
Stumbling forward, each movement like walking against the tide, Darlene lurched toward the mailbox. When she tried to pull it open, it wouldn’t give; the damned thing was frozen shut. She let out a crazy laugh and then began yanking furiously, her hands becoming bloodied as they fought brutally against the freezing metal. Finally, when her entire body had started to go numb, the mailbox snapped open with a loud bang. Darlene raised her bloody, frostbitten fingers to her lips and kissed the postcard a single time, not thinking about who it would go to, not thinking about anything.
Then, just as the storm formed in her mind, Darlene’s rebellious hands dropped it in the mailbox.
1
Leigh Mae Montgomery, formally of Blackriver, was hunting for prey at the Cambridge Queen’s Head Pub. She looked around slowly, her observant eyes eliminating the male prospects one by one. The boy by the door had too many friends, the boy at the table in the back had too few. The short one standing by the door was wearing worn out tennis shoes, and the one with the hat on had a dark look in his eyes that she didn’t trust. None of them was the mark she needed.
Maybe tonight wasn’t the night. Leigh shook her head with a sigh. It was a silly thought. It was the end of the month…tonight had to be the night.
She checked her watch – a Kate Spade knock-off found in Chinatown– and shifted on the uncomfortable bar stool. She’d been here for an hour already, watching and waiting, slowly nursing a Coke, the cheapest thing available that wasn’t water. She clinked the ice across her teeth, an annoying habit she had picked up from her mother. At the thought of her parents, Leigh cringed. She should call them - it had been too long. Tomorrow she would for sure. But first: this. She closed her eyes, calling up a calming image: the sound of water rushing over stones, the creak of pine trees overhead. A strong wind, rushing through her. Those memories were nice. Her memories of this bar, however…
It had been August 2nd when Leigh Mae had climbed out of her car in front of the Ivy Yard. It had been a grueling 36-hour drive from the Absaroka hills of Western Wyoming to her dorm in Boston and everything inside her was screaming to escape. As she opened the car door, a whiff of stale air and sweat poured past as her legs trembled beneath her. As Leigh Mae stretched out – holding back tears that she was at finally here, at Harvard - a place she had only seen in her dreams - a girl strolled past her, looking like something from another world. Leigh Mae had watched her in awe: the way this East Coast girl held her coffee cup in one hand, the way her tight black pants looked perfect over brown leather flats. She wore a white puffy vest over a tartan button-down shirt. Her light brown skin practically glowed with health and money. As she passed, she winked at Leigh and hopped up the steps into the quaint red brick and white wood of Mower Dorm. The girl’s name was Imogen, and it turned out that was she Leigh’s roommate. When she saw her again, the East Coast princess had been standing in their room in front of a long mirror, toying with her perfect curls.
“Oh no.” Leigh Mae had said it out loud and the girl had spun around.
“Are you Leigh?” Leigh. She had repeated the name back to herself, liking the way it sounded on this girl’s lips. At home, Leigh was drawn out, more like “lay”, but here, it was sharp and clean. Very Harvard. It was at that very moment that Leigh Mae decided to drop the Mae from her name, the first change to her identity occurring only minutes after stepping on the campus.
That night, Imogen had suggested that they go out for drinks at the Queen’s Cambridge. Leigh had ne
rvously checked her wallet and with caution eyed the two twenties inside. I’ll only have water, she thought, aware that this might be her in; she couldn’t throw away her chance to make friends.
The money had flown out of her wallet as if snatched by a ghost. There had been a boy there that night – Bryce, a friend of Imogen’s from prep school. Bryce had carried himself so effortlessly. He laughed at her jokes and let his hand rest lightly on her shoulder, ginger hair falling over his eyes as he bought everyone a round of drinks like it was nothing. She couldn’t believe her luck – this boy liked her, this boy who was everything she thought this place would be.
As the night wore on, Imogen became more and more curious about Leigh’s past, asking innocent questions that she couldn’t have known were loaded with emotional grenades. Leigh had felt put on the spot in front of these strangers and drank more to cover her nerves. At least Bryce had been in the bathroom for awhile now.
“So, Leigh, tell us about Blackriver.” Panic rose inside of Leigh at the thought of answering that question, and she had excused herself to go to the bathroom, hoping to run into him. She wove her way to the restrooms, located in a dark corner at the back of the bar and ripe with the smell of beer. Leigh froze when she heard voices just around the corner. From where she was standing, she could see their reflection in the mirror that faced out into the crowded bar.
“Bryce, are you going to take Miss Leigh Flyover home?” A girl named Jenna turned her voice into a mocking Western accent. “Oh Mr. Harvaaard, I ain’t never even been to a home that wasn’t mah trailer home! I know my mama would say no, but you’re just such a gentleman! Can you show me what you’re hiding inside of here?” She reached for his belt as a naughty smile crossed Bryce’s face.
“You know I don’t take trash home.” He said meanly before burying his hands in Jenna’s hair, kissing her deeply. Leigh spun on her heel, her head swimming with booze and a realization that was fell over her like a tidal wave.
She would never be one of them. They pitied her.
With gritted teeth, Leigh made her way back to the table, noticing within seconds of sitting down that Bryce had left his wallet there. Without a second thought, she knocked it off onto the floor with a sweep of her elbow, and then followed it by spilling her drink. As she bent over to wipe the floor with a napkin, she slipped all the cash out of Bryce’s wallet into her hand before kicking it across the bar. She tucked it into her pocket and plastered a pretty smile on her face when some guy asked her if she ever watched Nascar.
That’s how it had started, the stealing. She drank way too much that night, trying to smother the feelings within her: anger at Bryce’s rejection and the potent fear that she wouldn’t be good enough to stay. Leigh loved Blackriver, but she couldn’t go back. Not now. Maybe not ever. She quieted her doubts with the fresh $200 in her pocket. That night as she knelt on the bathroom floor and regretted each drink, Imogen had crept in and held Leigh’s hair back as she cried. There might be some smug assholes at this school, but thankfully Imogen wasn’t one of them.
Life moved forward. With Imogen’s help, Leigh quickly adapted to the culture of East Coast cool, and at the end of the day, there was nowhere Leigh would rather be than their dorm room laughing. By the time classes started, Leigh had found herself employment at the Bean House, a coffee shop down the street from Mower Dorm, where she served coffee to undergrads until 2 a.m. With a steady job, Leigh had some money, but it was proving to not be enough: tuition was ridiculous, and the clothes she had brought with her from Blackriver were threadbare. And then…the letter. One of her scholarships had been dropped due to a loophole with Leigh’s new income. She couldn’t survive without her job at the Bean House, but she also couldn’t make tuition without the scholarship. After weeks of pleading with everyone who would listen, Leigh had ended up outside the dorm, frantically wiping her tears away so that Imogen wouldn’t see. Pushing a long breath of air out of her lungs in attempt to stop crying, she watched as a glowing, earnest frat boy – handed a pizza delivery guy a stack of twenties like it was nothing. That’s when she had remembered taking Bryce’s wallet, and how easy that had been. Desperation, she thought, had brought her here, and desperation was what it was going to take to climb out. After all she had done to get here, she wasn’t going to let some stuffy bursar take it back.
That night Leigh created Evelyn in her mind, the persona of a girl who was everything Leigh wasn’t. Evelyn was rich, but in an old money way. Her parents – an art dealer and a stock broker - owned a brownstone on Beacon Street. Evelyn was their only child. She had attended Choate, the premier private school in Connecticut, and dabbled in lacrosse. She was a junior with an obscure financial major. Evelyn loved poetry and sushi and went to Coachella every year with her girls.
But most of all, Evelyn was very good at getting boys to bring her home.
The sound of someone dropping a pint glass wrenched her eyes back open. Leigh sat up straighter as the crowds parted toward the rear of the bar and a boy stepped forward. Over the lip of her glass, she observed the way he strutted forward to the worn oak railing, a laugh easy on his lips. He probably didn’t realize how everything about his life was effortless: the way his expensive jeans hung just right, how the thick grey sweater worn open over a worn Harvard T-shirt looked just casual enough. He wouldn’t understand – couldn’t understand – that no matter how little effort he put into his appearance, boys like this exuded money. When everything in your closet was expensive, it was impossible to look cheap. The strong threads of his clothes, the name brands, and the ability to buy overpriced college T-shirts…they all added up to a certain natural confidence. A confidence that Leigh had created Evelyn to fake.
As he turned, she caught a better glimpse of his shirt and instantly recognized the logo for the Harvard Heavyweight Crew. Her skin tingled. He was a rower. Rowing was not a sport for scholarship kids; this kid was the one. Leigh tossed her dark hair back behind her shoulder and licked her lips as she hid her soda on the sideboard beside her. Sitting forward, Leigh tilted her head and pretended to be interested in her book, looking up at just the right moment to catch the boy’s eye as he passed her. Contact. She watched as he took her in; long legs in grey leggings accented by tall brown boots, tight crimson sweater, freckled wool scarf around her neck. The boy’s eyes ran over her pale skin spackled with freckles, her black glasses, burnt red lips and mane of dark brown hair. She looked, she knew, like a well-bred, born and raised East Coast girl, someone who belonged at Harvard. She had worked pretty hard on that. The boy standing at the bar slowly raised his hand her direction and Leigh smiled, sitting back as if she had just noticed him.
“What are you drinking?” he yelled over the music.
“Sorry, are you talking to me?” She looked up, confused.
“Yeah! Oh, sorry, I should have made that clear.” He blushed adorably. “Can I buy you a drink? What do you like?”
Money, she thought, but instead she said, “Cider!” He nodded and motioned to the bartender with one hand, knowing that the bartender would pay attention to his Kennedy-esque good looks. Less than two minutes later, he slid into the seat next to Leigh holding a Strongbow and an obscure craft beer.
“Hi! I’m Henry Champney.”
Of course you are, she mused at his ridiculous last name, but she stuck out her hand. “Evelyn Porch.”
Evelyn, because it was an upper-class name that reeked of privilege. Porch, because it was common, thus forgettable. In her mind, Leigh slipped out of herself and into Evelyn, now as simple as pulling on a sweater.
“So, Evelyn, do you go to school at this hovel?”
Leigh almost laughed. Going to Harvard was one thing she was most proud of. It was the reason she was sitting here in this bar pretending to be someone else, it was her entire world. This hovel. This guy was definitely worth taking for a ride.
“Yes. I’m a junior, finance major, live off-campus.”
She was a freshman. Sociology major. Very on-
campus.
Henry smiled as he took a sip of his beer. “Sweet, me too. My dad and my grandfather went here, so it’s kind of a family tradition to attend Harvard. The Champneys even have a brick with their name on it at the Newell.”
Leigh smiled through clenched teeth. “How wonderful.” How easy. How perfectly easy for you. Her family tradition had been snowshoeing in the winter to hunt for food. Leigh sipped her cider as Henry droned on about classes and roommates, nodding at all the right times, but somewhere else entirely in her mind. She didn’t tell him what it had taken to get her in the doors here: a relentless pursuit of the impossible, a pile of scholarship applications, and letters from professionals whom she had driven six hours to meet. Crying. Begging, Fights. And then finally, the greatest cost of all. She sat up, pulled back to the present.
“Sorry, what were you saying?” Leigh/Evelyn had lost herself in the conversation.
“Are you at home? Here?” He raised his thick eyebrows at her. He really was quite handsome. “I said, are you at home here? At Harvard?”
“Yeah.” She practiced the cool tone of Evelyn’s voice, the voice that said that she couldn’t care less about this college. “It’s alright, I guess. I enjoy some of the professors. You?”