Aunt Ivy's Cottage: A totally gripping and emotional page turner

by Kristin Harper

  “Did this happen because of her arrhythmia?”

  “It’s possible they’re related, but it’s just as possible they’re not—we’ll never know. But we do know how to treat her condition and we’ll do everything we can to help your aunt feel better soon.”

  “Thank you,” Zoey said, and this time she really meant it.

  It was after seven when Zoey left the hospital. If Ivy had had her way, she would have left by five. She thought her niece was making “too much of a fuss over nothing” and said she couldn’t relax knowing that Zoey hadn’t eaten any supper yet.

  “When you come tomorrow, please bring the cribbage board and my coin jar. And don’t forget my hairbrush and rollers,” she requested.

  After saying goodbye, Zoey hesitated outside her room, wondering if she should stay a little longer. But she was concerned because Gabi hadn’t returned her calls and Zoey’s phone battery had died an hour earlier, so now her niece had no way of reaching her, either.

  She caught one of the shuttle buses that departed the hospital every fifteen minutes. When she arrived home she was unnerved to spy Nick’s truck in the driveway; there was no one she could have been less happy to see at that moment, including Mark. As she neared the back yard, she noticed Aidan was cutting the grass. It appeared he was almost finished. Good—they won’t be here much longer, Zoey thought.

  “Hiya.” Nick rose when she reached the steps, moving aside so she could open the door. “I wanted to check the wall and ceiling in the best room, but no one was home. Is Ivy okay?

  Crossing the threshold, Zoey said icily, “Yes, she is. Not that you really care.”

  Nick followed her down the hall. “Are you upset because of our conversation yesterday? I know I acted like a jerk and—”

  She stopped and turned, staring him down. “You weren’t acting like a jerk. You are one. I heard every word of the dirty deal you made with Mark to tear out the attic floor.”

  Nick jerked his head backward. “I was—I was going to talk to you about that, but I haven’t had the chance,” he stammered.

  “Save it.” She jogged upstairs to Gabi’s room but there was no sign she’d been back since leaving that morning. Zoey had already called Amy’s number from the hospital and left several messages. Where else could Gabi have gone? It was past seven-thirty. She went into her own bedroom, connected her phone to the adapter and powered it on, but it didn’t indicate any missed calls. No texts, either.

  Nick was waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase, but she breezed past him, down the hall and out the door.

  “Aidan!” she shouted twice because the teenager didn’t hear her over the mower’s engine. She marched across the lawn and clapped her hand on his shoulder. He cut the power and grinned at her.

  “Hi, Zo—”

  She interrupted him. “Do you know where Gabi is? I can’t find her and she isn’t answering her phone. I’ve called Amy but I haven’t heard back from her, either.”

  He gave her a strange look. “I haven’t seen her today. But I wouldn’t worry too much. Hope Haven is one of the safest counties in the country.”

  “Aidan, it’s important that I find her.”

  By this time, Nick had joined them. “If he says he doesn’t know where she is, he doesn’t know.”

  “He didn’t say he doesn’t know where she is. He said he hadn’t seen her today,” she argued. “Maybe he’s as devious about twisting the truth as his father is.”

  “Listen, Zoey, if you want to be angry at me, that’s fine. But don’t call my son a liar.”

  Zoey ignored him, turning her attention back to Aidan, who was shifting from foot to foot. “I know she used to hang out with a group of kids on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I… uh-I made a promise—”

  “You don’t have to tell her a thing, son.”

  The more Nick interfered, the more Zoey suspected Aidan was keeping something from her. She pleaded, “Aidan, this is important. No one will get in trouble. No one will find out you were the one who told me. Please?”

  “Dad, she needs to know.” Aidan gave his father an apologetic look before telling Zoey, “It’s supposed to be anonymous, but for a while she’s been attending a group for teenagers of alcoholics. But today’s meeting only lasted until—”

  “Where does it meet?”

  “The community center near the beach. But—”

  “Move your truck,” Zoey barked at Nick as she dashed inside for the keys. On her way out, Moby slipped passed her legs, bounded down the steps and took off across the lawn. For such a portly animal, he sure could move fast. Zoey didn’t have time for his nonsense and she moved just as swiftly in the opposite direction, toward the garage.

  Aidan jogged after her. “Gabi won’t be there, Zoey. The meeting ended at five-thirty.”

  Zoey got into the Caddy and shifted into reverse. As she stepped on the gas to back out, the car bucked in fits and starts. When she pressed the pedal harder, the way she’d seen Ivy do it, she sailed backward so quickly she didn’t have time to slam on the brakes until after she’d heard a crunch beneath her tires: she had knocked into the picket fence. Knocked over the picket fence.

  She pulled forward, turning the steering wheel to reposition the vehicle, but in her rearview mirror she saw Nick at the end of the driveway, waving his arms for her to stop. She got out of the car and yelled, “Get out of my way!”

  “Gabi’s here!” he shouted back. Then he signaled to his son who stood frozen by the picket fence, his mouth hanging open, his hands on his head. “Aidan, leave the mower where it is. We’re going.”

  As they left, Zoey charged down the driveway and embraced her niece, burying her face in her hair. “Where have you been, Gabi?”

  Without answering, her niece pushed her arms away and dodged into the house. That’s when Zoey noticed a short, round, middle-aged man with a walrus moustache standing in front of a gray sedan parked in the street nearby. A woman, presumably his wife, was sitting in the passenger seat.

  “Is everything all right here?” he asked, surveying the splintered fence and the Cadillac parked askew in the driveway, its door open and a warning bell chiming faintly.

  “Who are you?” Zoey asked bluntly, wondering why he’d given her niece a ride home.

  He explained he was Gabi’s history teacher, Gary Hallowell. Apparently she had climbed a tree to get over the fence in Mr. Witherell’s yard. The fence was locked from both sides and she’d been stuck for hours until Gary heard her calling for help. He would have reported her for trespassing, but usually she was so respectful and responsible he decided to let it slide. As his eyes darted around the yard, Zoey wondered if he was going to report her to the authorities.

  She thanked him for bringing Gabi home. “I promise nothing like this will happen again and we’ll pay for any damage she did to Mr. Witherell’s property.”

  “She didn’t do any damage,” the teacher said as he returned to his car. “Nothing like this, anyway.”

  After parking the Caddy in the garage again, Zoey went inside the house to her niece’s room. The teenager was sitting on her bed, her back turned as she faced the window.

  “Why would you go to Mr. Witherell’s house? You knew he died, so it’s not as if you could have talked to him about Mark or Marcus Jr. So why would you try to break in to an empty house?”

  Her niece was silent.

  “Did somebody dare you?”

  No response.

  “I expect an answer and until you give me one, you won’t be going anywhere after school. Not even to band, so you’ll need to inform the director you’re not going to be performing in the concert.”

  This didn’t elicit so much as a shrug.

  Her obstinate passivity was exasperating and Zoey was too spent to try to break through it. As evenly as she could, she said, “I imagine you may have been frightened when you were stuck behind Mr. Witherell’s fence. And even though you brought that o
n yourself, it hurts to know you needed my help and I wasn’t there. I promised your mom if…”

  Zoey had to stop talking, for fear she’d start bawling. When she spoke again, she went down a different path, saying, “It really upset me when I couldn’t find you, because I didn’t know if anything had happened to you. But it also upset me because I needed to tell you something had happened and I couldn’t. This afternoon Aunt Ivy had to be hospitalized—”

  “She’s not in her room?” Gabi whipped her head around. Her cheeks were red but her eyes were clear. “Is she okay?”

  “She is now, yes. Or she will be. She has a blood clot in her lungs but they’re taking care of it with medication. She’ll be staying in the hospital for several days.”

  Gabi blinked, her mouth opening slightly. Zoey waited for her to speak, but she turned and faced the window again.

  “I’ll take you to visit her when you get home from school tomorrow,” Zoey said and left the room.

  After taking a long, hot shower, she considered going downstairs since she’d promised Ivy she’d have “a decent meal” when she got home, but she retreated to her room and stretched out on her bed. She wasn’t hungry; she was depleted. Physically, mentally and emotionally; the trifecta of exhaustion.

  If she craved anything, it was eight hours straight of sleep. It was a solid plan to keep Mark from putting Ivy into an assisted living facility. Or, most of all, it was a hug and a word of reassurance her aunt was going to be fine; everything was going to be fine. It might not have been true, but it was what she needed to hear.

  She thought she heard Gabi stirring in the next room, but then she realized it was raining. Zoey disconnected her phone from the adapter and brought it downstairs. As she was walking from room to room, lowering the windows so the sills wouldn’t get wet, her phone rang—it was Mark. Now is not the time for confrontation or conflict, she reminded herself before answering it. Whatever he says, I can’t react.

  But his compassionate greeting surprised her. “Hey, Zo. I’m really sorry I missed your calls and texts. I left my phone in a friend’s car and he just dropped it off now. But I’m really glad Ivy’s okay.”

  “Me, too. I’m thankful they caught it in time.” She reclined on the sofa and repeated what the doctor had said about their aunt’s condition and treatment.

  When she finished, he remarked, “Today must have been pretty tough for you. How are you holding up?”

  That Mark’s simple inquiry nearly caused Zoey to dissolve into tears was a reflection of how volatile her emotions were. “I’m not great,” she sniffed. “Obviously.”

  He paused before saying, “So, listen, I have a question for you. Do you know what kind of medication they’re giving Ivy?”

  “Some kind of anticoagulants, I think.”

  “But that doesn’t affect her cognitively, right?”

  Zoey rubbed her eyes. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

  “I need her to sign a few legal documents, but if she’s under the influence of certain substances, her signature might not be considered legitimate.”

  “You might not be considered legitimate,” Zoey growled, before hanging up and bouncing the phone against the cushion beside her.

  Realizing Mark’s initial compassion toward her had just been a front to get her to open up about Ivy’s mental state, she hopped to her feet and paced in front of the fireplace. Their aunt could have died—their aunt still might die—and all Mark cared about was making sure he could follow through with his plan to push her out of her house in the event she survived.

  Now she was boiling mad again. And because she’d taken a hot shower and lowered the windows, Zoey felt physically hot, as well. She tramped into the dark kitchen for a glass of water. As she drank it, a branch tapped the window panes over the sink: Sylvia’s rhododendrons. The minute Aunt Ivy moves, Mark is going have those torn out to let more light into the kitchen, she thought bitterly. Nick might even do it for him for free.

  It infuriated her that her cousin had no regard for the things that mattered to Sylvia and Ivy. That he was going to mine her house and yard for whatever would profit him financially and cast everything else aside. And it infuriated her even more that she couldn’t come up with any way to stop him. She set her glass down and began to pace.

  Rapping her head with her knuckles, she demanded, Think, Zoey, think! On her second lap across the room, she stubbed her toe hard against Moby’s bowl and sent it skidding beneath the table. Moby! She’d forgotten he’d fled outdoors earlier that evening. Her ire at Mark was instantly replaced with concern for the cat. The poor thing, out on a wretched night like this.

  She turned on the overhead light and pushed the window further open so he’d hear the whirring of the electric can opener and come running. But when she checked the back steps, he wasn’t there. He must be taking shelter beneath the wild rose bushes. That was his usual spot to hide whenever he was outside and it started raining. But Zoey knew he wouldn’t voluntarily emerge from his haven into the rain, so she switched the floodlight on and stepped outside. Trotting across the lawn toward the hedge of roses along the back fence, she made a kissing sound and cooed, “Moby. Moby. Come out of there, Mobes.”

  When he didn’t, she dropped to her knees beside the sweet, fragrant shrubs. As she parted the abundant lower branches, their prickles scratched her hands. Her pajama top was already clinging wetly to her back from the rain and now her knees were muddy. “Don’t do this to me, Moby,” she pleaded. “Not tonight.”

  She continued to crawl down the row, pushing branches aside and peering beneath them until she finally spotted the corpulent creature. She reached in and he allowed her to draw him toward her. Standing, she snuggled him to her chest. “Thought you could fool me, did you?” she asked as she walked toward the house. “I was stashing my cousin’s skateboard beneath the roses before you were even born. It’s the best hiding place in this yard.”

  Zoey spontaneously recalled her aunt Sylvia’s final words. For now, it’s best to let the past stay buried in the past, she had mumbled. But then she’d added, Beneath the roses. Zoey had attributed the comment to sleepiness. Or to a kind of end-of-life delirium. But now it struck her that Sylvia may have been indicating where she’d hidden the proof of Marcus Jr.’s paternity.

  That has to be it! She broke into a run, with Moby bouncing in her arms and epiphanies flashing through her mind. She and Mark had just recently reminisced about the time Jessica had snuck off with his skateboard when they were kids and hidden it beneath the rose bushes, to get back at him for his stories about the dentil molding. Aunt Sylvia was the one who found Mark’s skateboard that summer… She couldn’t have incidentally discovered it when she was clipping a spray of roses—Jessica and I made sure it was completely hidden from view.

  Zoey concluded her aunt must have looked beneath the roses deliberately, to spare her darling grandson the frustration of searching for the skateboard himself. What if she had known it was the perfect hiding place because that’s where she had concealed evidence about her relationship with Mr. Witherell? She wouldn’t have hidden the evidence inside the house, for fear Marcus or Ivy would discover it. Zoey didn’t know whether that evidence was Mr. Witherell’s letters or something else, but she was determined to find out.

  “Moby needs a towel,” Zoey said, handing the cat to a shocked Gabi, who was standing in the doorway. After quickly darting in to put on her running shoes to protect her feet, she dashed to the garage, grabbed a shovel, a hoe and garden gloves and ran back to the wild rose shrubs. Pulling the branches back with one hand, she used the hoe to chop at the ground with the other.

  Gabi came out from the kitchen, swaddling Moby in a towel like a newborn. “You’re soaking wet. What are you doing out there?”

  “Go back to bed.” She clumsily pushed the blade into the ground, scooped up a small amount of soil and then chucked it to the side. Again and again.

  “Aunt Zoey, come inside!” Gabi pleade
d from the doorway.

  Zoey kept digging.

  Her niece came up behind her. “Aunt Zoey, please stop it.”

  Zoey ignored her and eventually Gabi left. The rain was coming down in sheets, obscuring her vision, but she kept shoveling and scooping and tossing the soil aside until she’d cleared a hole around the first bush. She pushed on the trunk to wiggle it but its roots were long and intertwined with the roots of the shrub next to it. The thorns bit into her arms and wrists where the gloves didn’t cover her skin.

  Zoey gripped the trunk of the shrub and yanked it as hard as she could. Instead of uprooting the plant, Zoey lost her grip and fell flat on her butt. She shifted onto her knees again and thrust her hand into the sodden earth. She couldn’t feel anything so she took off the gloves and tried again. Nothing but a few stones and roots and sodden dirt. She felt like crying. Like quitting. I can’t give up. This is my last hope for stopping Mark.

  She pushed herself into a standing position and picked up the shovel to start on the next shrub. The movement of a shadow nearby caught her eye. It was Nick; Gabi must have called him. She began digging but he put his hand on her shoulder.

  “You’ve got to stop. You’re scaring your niece.”

  “Don’t touch me,” she swatted at his arm, splattering him with muck.

  “Please come inside, Zoey.”

  “Who are you to invite me into my aunt’s house, you-you-you—you traitor!” She scooped up another shovelful of soil and tossed it sideways, making him jump back.

  “I’m not a traitor, Zoey, I swear—” He hopped out of range as she slung more dirt in his direction. “I don’t want Mark to remove your aunt’s flooring any more than you do. That’s why I lied—hey, would you stop throwing dirt at me and just listen for a sec?”

  She stopped digging since her arms were tired anyway, but she wouldn’t face him.

  “I have no intention of ripping up Ivy’s floor and I don’t have ‘a guy’ who will pay Mark for the boards. I was lying so he wouldn’t let some other contractor come in and reclaim the wood. I knew there was no talking him out of his plan, so I needed to buy time until Ivy was feeling better and I could advise her against having it done—at least while she’s living in the house.”