by Mary Gray
She lifts her dimpled chin as she twists the knob, which gives a little squeak.
Regaining her composure, Natalie folds a hand over her stomach and adds, “Honestly, Gemma, you should consider yourself lucky that you don’t remember. Ignorance is bliss, so they say.”
No way is she going to leave things like that, so I lift my arm to block the door. “I’m sorry, Natalie. I need you to explain.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it, eyes suddenly brimming with tears. Looking uncertainly to the door, then back to me, she lowers her head before admitting, “Edgar’s the reason why your grandmother limps, all right?”
My chest constricts. “Why?”
Squeezing her eyes shut, Natalie whispers, “She was protecting you, and Edgar turned on her in his rage.”
He ... hurt her when he meant to hurt me?
I feel like I’m falling further and further into a black hole that’s lightyears from ending. “Why didn’t she leave him?”
Natalie touches the back of my arm. “Because Anne’s not your biological grandmother, sweetie. She and Edgar didn’t marry until their late fifties.”
My voice doesn’t work. Grammy’s not related by blood, and she stayed to protect me?
“Plus, she knew, with Edgar’s connections, that no judge in Wise County would ever rule in her favor if she tried to take you away. So she stayed married to him to keep you safe.”
Why didn’t Grammy press charges? What exactly does Natalie know about WT? But her hand becomes an iron-clad manacle around my arm, squeezing it with surprising strength. “Sorry again about Zeb leaving when you came into the office the other day. That FBI agent took up a ton of his time. At least the feds finally left town ..."
“Oh, good.” I can’t help agreeing with her sense of relief.
“Glad that’s behind us.” Natalie exhales shakily. “You didn’t, um, happen to talk to that agent, did you?”
Why does she want to know that? “No ..."
“Oh, good.” She pats my arm way too cheerfully. “If you did, let’s just say that Zeb and Jesse would be furious. Glad to know we’re right as rain!”
22
“I need you to share another memory with me,” I tell Tansy.
She takes another sip of her chamomile tea while we sit in front of the library fireplace. We’re decked out in some baby-blue corset, her favorite copper necklace, and about thirty different jeweled rings.
“Something real. Something to help me understand what happened with Edgar and WT.” The fire crackles as if clamoring in agreement while Tansy sets down her teacup.
Now that Natalie’s shown a light on Edgar and Grammy’s relationship, I have to understand who my husband was. He better not be like Edgar, is all I can say.
Quick as a viper, Tansy reels, “Edgar was not a nice man.”
“WT wasn’t like that, was he?”
“No ..." Tansy’s already testy mood sours. “How is it that you were willin’ to break Rule Number Two, G?”
“Natalie let herself in.” I tap the key in our skirt pocket. “She knows where we hide the key.”
“And my glowworm grotto! You haven’t once noticed it. How is it that you do not appreciate the painstaking efforts to which I go to make you happy?”
“Glowworm gro—oh. The lights.” Leaning back, I try to get comfortable, but Tansy’s corset’s about as comfortable as sitting between two rakes. On the ceiling, the lights do sort of look like mystical glowworms dotting an evening sky. “It’s thoughtful. Really, Tansy. I appreciate all the work you’ve gone to sprucing up the place.” Studying the multitude of rings she’s stuffed on our fingers, including a radish-sized ruby, I find the courage to say, “Now I need help putting together the pieces of what happened with Edgar and WT. Is there a connection? When I asked Natalie about it, she really freaked.”
Tansy floats to the front of our consciousness, actually using our mouth to communicate this time. “I don’t think you need me at all ... now that you have”—she waves a bejeweled hand in the air—‘Grrrammy.’”
“Come on.” I lower our hand. “Don’t be like that. Grammy just suggested I go back to the bridge. I needed to sort out some personal things.”
Tansy reels back so hard, the chair tips sideways. “If you were able to remember the bridge, then you really don’t need me! I suppose you’re all gung ho to go runnin’ off to craft shows—and—and Bingo Nights.”
“Tansy.” I straighten the easy chair. “That’s the last thing on my mind.”
Once I’ve got us resettled, Tansy licks our lips, making us stare directly into the fire. She leans so far forward that our corset’s about to burst into flames. An ember lands on our skirt, and I shake it off before we unintentionally cremate. But I can’t anger her further—ember’s going out anyway—so I grit my teeth and wait.
Sweat beads on our neck. Seriously, it’s like we’re roasting alive.
Gripping the heavy fabric of our skirt, Tansy coolly says, “Has it ever occurred to you that if you had been content with our life, we wouldn’t have lost your ‘precious’ WT?”
What ... ? Okay, I’ll pretend that doesn’t at all sting. Still, she’s giving me a sizable piece regarding our past. I can’t push too hard. Must tread carefully.
Leaping from our chair, Tansy whooshes our skirts, suddenly becomes a lioness, stalking her prey. “You liked the idea of this small town. But it’s never been enough for you, G. You’ve always needed adventure. To see things! WT was happy and content, but you had to go n’ screw that up. You pushed him. The truth is, we lost our gentle husband, ‘cause you couldn’t find it within yourself to be happy.”
Hammers are pounding in my head. I’m not even sure if I can handle what happened. But I can’t live like this—cocooned and shielded from the truth. All she does is stay here, cooped up, like a potted plant all day.
Fists clenched, I open my mouth to tell her that I’m prepared to go thirty rounds to prove things need to change, when she droops our head and admits, “All right, all right, all right, I’ll show you somethin’ ... but this is the last time, my sweet.”
I try not to smile at my victory.
“Also”—Tansy trills our hand in the air—"showin’ you what happened is, in a word, exhausting. I need you to vow that after this, you shall willingly go away for three weeks.”
“That’s a full seven days longer!” But Tansy and I both know that she has no qualms with eating half a can of soup a day just to keep me inside. “Fine,” I huff, retreating back to the cushioned chair. This better be worth it.
A small smile stretches over our lips as she grips the chair’s arms and sits us back down to stare at the orange flames. “Once I share this with you, we shall never speak of it. Do you hear me? You will see why he left. You will understand how it was you who drove him away.”
23
They say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and outside in the garden, where the foxglove and azaleas bloom, I have quite the meal planned for myself and WT.
We’ve been cooped up in this town for months. Same food. Same people, same scenery. It’s high time we spiced things up a little and got away. It’s not that I’m unhappy, but I need adventure. It’s times like these that I really miss the excitement, hustle, and bustle of Williamsburg and Washington, D.C.
Tapping my invitation on the table, I stare at the rustic cardstock and shabby chic lettering. To think what this promises—no preconceived misconceptions. No friends to complicate matters. Just him, me, and nature. It doesn’t get any better than that.
We need this, more than I can say.
The screen door squeals as WT shoulders his way outside. I had thought about lighting candles, but the wind would just blow them out. It’s daytime, besides. The pretty cherub statues and freshly pruned boxwoods provide plenty of ambiance. Not to mention the jasmine scent wafting plentifully from the Confederate ivy. WT will see that, while I’m comfortable here in our outdoor world, it’s time to grow a littl
e—stretch our wings.
Pulling out his chair on the grass, the love of my life leans down to kiss me. His beard’s a little longer than usual, and I can already sense his serious mood when his tender lips meet mine.
“What are you doing out here?” His somber voice matches the sobriety of his amber tie. Reaching over, his fingers traipse along the bare skin just above my knee. I lean in, hungry for his touch, always.
When a bumblebee buzzes between us, I take my time sipping my orange juice, watching its pollen-covered body. “Oh, you know, just getting ideas ..."
WT raises his eyebrows with a conspiratorial glint in his eye.
I swat his arm. “Not that kind of idea.”
“Too bad.” He takes a quick swig of his juice. “I don’t have to go into the office until 10:30 ..."
Tempted, but not about to be derailed, I hold out the card so that he can see his name. “For you.”
WT’s eyes light with humor as he accepts the card and rips it open. Is he going to be glad that I went to the effort, or will he silently think I’m being unappreciative of the comforts he provides? I know he hates to travel, but we’ve been married two months and haven’t so much as left the county—not even for our honeymoon. I know work keeps him busy, but everyone needs a little balance in their lives.
As WT’s warm, kind eyes scan my writing, though, his earlier humor fades. “You want to go on a trip.”
“Just to Palo Duro. It’s only a five hour drive.”
Pushing back his chair, he rises to his feet. “What you don’t understand, Gemma, is—” He catches sight of the hurt on my face, and he clamps his jaw shut. Rakes his fingers through his gelled hair and sinks back into his chair. Gently taking my hands in his, he says, “I’m sorry, but now isn’t a good time.”
But he’s been saying that for ages. I suggested we go to Nashville after our wedding, and he wouldn’t talk about it once. When I asked about San Antonio, he insisted he had an un-reschedulable meeting. But Palo Duro isn’t that far, and it’s supposed to be beautiful.
“We don’t have to use any of your money,” I explain. “I have my old camping tent, and Natalie said we can use her and Jesse’s bikes.”
Pain, sharp and fast, skims over WT’s eyes. “You think this is about money?” His gaze traipses to the fence. The BMW he bought me is parked on the other side by the street. I insisted I was happy with my beater, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He bought the Bimmer brand new and has it detailed every few weeks.
Burrowing my hands into the thick callouses of his palms, I say, “I don’t know how to explain it, but this town ... WT, there’s something wrong. And it’s suffocating me.”
“You go, then.”
“But I want to go with you.” I ball my hands into fists while we both pull away. “This could be really good for us.”
I don’t bring up the fact that there’s something really creepy about his hired hand, Dwayne. He keeps lurking about whenever WT leaves. Not to mention the way the ladies at church have been acting. They stop talking the minute I approach them after services. It’s not that I necessarily want to socialize, but ... I don’t know. People have been acting so strangely. Not only have some of the locals been complaining about my Goatman’s Bridge script, but someone draped a rebel flag over our mailbox, and I know that wasn’t WT or me.
Leaning over, my husband raises his hand to caress the side of my face. Normally, I wouldn’t let him do it without seeing a hint of a compromise, but he’s got this strange, almost trapped look in his eyes. “You go ahead.” In half a second, the look is gone. He skims his lips over my forehead, and I melt against my better instincts. “Take my truck, if you like.”
24
The worst part about losing consciousness is never knowing where I stand afterward with Tansy.
Sure, I know we made a deal. I know I agreed to be locked away for three weeks. But now I don’t know if the cannibalistic Christmas short story she’s left here on the kitchen table is simply an artistic expression of how she’s feeling at the moment, or if it’s more of a direct reflection of what she’s prone to do in real life.
Jerusha and Hawkins have made a mess of their food. Kibble’s mixed with water in their food tray. One look in their cupboard tells me I need to go to Grady Dean’s. My stomach scrapes like I haven’t eaten in years, and the gold-plaited mirror in the hall shows that my eyes couldn’t be more bloodshot if I were a zombie.
Naturally, Tansy hasn’t bothered with the laundry. But the last running clothes I wore didn’t get all that sweaty. Wish I could dab on some concealer for the black circles under my eyes.
The only thing to do is grab my sneakers, and get out of here before Tansy pops up and insists that I need to be locked up for three more weeks.
Time to take care of all the things. But it’s time that I structured my day a bit differently.
Darting out the back door, I make a pit-stop in the garden—the table where I once sat with WT. It’s a little hard to imagine the brittle foliage being in full bloom and the cherubs standing. It’s even harder to imagine him—a man—living and breathing in this very spot, right in front of me.
He lived here. This was our home. How could I have forgotten him when he was such a full and integral part of my life? Yes, all right—I’m sure Tansy’s the reason for the missing pieces, but why would she do it? Why would she slander the memories of the one person I was willing to be married to, pretty much the man of my dreams?
At least one of the cherubs needs to stand upright, so I stride over, lift the marble, and place it on its feet. Weather and erosion smear its features, and, as the wind picks up, leaves scatter in a whirl of mystery.
When I went to the bridge, I was able to dredge up more of my past. Maybe if I physically go to a key place, I’ll be able to pull up another memory.
Yes, that’s what I’ll do.
I’ll learn more through my senses. Ground myself with what I’ve already experienced via taste, touch, sound, smell, sight.
“Do you know anything about the Hardins?” I ask Francesca while she ties my hair into a Dutch braid.
I would go to one of the spots where WT and I spent time, but I’m not even sure where those spots are yet. Hence, reconnaissance. I know I said I didn’t want to talk about my past too much with Francesca, but she’s always been an excellent resource when I’ve been unsure of how to proceed. Plus, it feels good to come back here—despite Wanda—I spy her nametag, yippee!—being bent over her books at the front desk, scowling all the time.
Francesca glances up, her gorgeous, amber eyes almost jittery. “Isn’t Hardin your last name?”
“Well, yes,” I curb, doubting she wants to be bogged down with all the details. “My married name.”
Chewing on her bottom lip, Francesca coaxes all my fine hairs into place before dousing me with half a bottle of “maximum hold” hairspray. It isn’t until she’s handing me a mirror to check the back of my hair that her shoulders loosen.
“Honey, I came to this town to get my husband and daughter back in my life.” She lets go of a heavy-burdened laugh. “Even saved up for months to buy my daughter those checkered Vans all the kids like.”
“That’s a nice thing to do.” I hold the mirror in wonder, deciding if I had kids, surely Tansy would tell me. “So ... how are your husband and daughter doing?”
“They”—she bites her lip again—“haven’t gotten back to me.” She scans the entire room, faltering when her gaze lands on Wanda, who’s gone onto cataloging their entire file system. “I don’t even know where they are, but I do know that a certain man with the last name of Hardin helped them get their place.”
I nearly drop the mirror. “How do you know that?”
“That’s what Tim—my husband—told my mama before they moved to Deep Creek.” I’m just about to admit that I’m on the hunt for WT myself when Francesca uses the back of her hand to wipe the corners of her eyes. “In my past, let’s just say I made a few mistakes.” She laugh
s awkwardly. “Tim, uh, he got full custody. But I had to prove to him that I’m good now! Three hundred and sixty-two days clean.”
Oh, wow. I never would have known she’d ever struggled with substance abuse. Pranks, yes, but nothing serious enough to disallow her custody of her own child. Still, she’s obviously doing a whole lot better than me. I still don’t even know if I murdered my own husband.
“I can’t imagine the road you must have traveled.” I lower my voice. “Looks like us girls have to stick together.” I take her hand. “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before your family accepts the changes you’ve made.”
An unruly tear courses down the side of Francesca’s face. “I sure hope so, baby.” Gently pulling away, she uses the back of her thumb to wipe the tear away.
Sensing she’ll appreciate any and all information I have, I quickly explain, “I’m trying to locate Mr. Hardin myself ..."
“You mean your husband?” Francesca shakes her head, hoop earrings jangling. “Where do you think they ran off to?” But before I can say anything, her gaze falls to her work table to a framed picture of a little girl with an enormous smile, pink scrunchy, and a long, ebony braid. She’s adorable. Maybe twelve.
“She’s beautiful,” I say.
More tears barrel down Francesca’s cheeks. And now I feel like a total jerk for not noticing her daughter’s picture before. And making her cry. “Her name’s Delilah, and it’s killing me, not hearing her voice.”
“We’ll find them.” I promise, vowing to learn the connection between her husband and daughter and WT.
We have to—especially now that I know that this isn’t just about me.
Luckily, I don’t run into Ollie again at Grady Dean’s. I imagine it’s because I grab Tansy’s cans in record time, and the store’s jam-packed with a junior league baseball team. I do wish I knew what Francesca’s husband’s connection to WT means. Were they involved in some business deal that went south? Was WT also into MMA?