After an hour, Lara began to rise from the sofa. “I’ll walk you out,” said Todd.
“Let her go, Todd,” another pair of aunts teased. “It’s almost midnight. Bad luck to see the bride on the wedding day.” The overhead fans in the screen porch were rhythmically cycling above them, sending out waves of cool air that made Lara shiver.
“I’ll make sure to send her out by eleven fifty-nine then.” He pushed through the door. “How many times has your mother called you?”
“Twice in the last ten minutes.” Lara slow-walked across the yard toward her Jeep. She looked up at the sky and thought that she should remember to look up more often—the stars seemed low, like they were glowing brighter for her.
“Before you go, I have something to show you.”
Lara spun to see that Todd had begun to walk backward, leading her toward his stepfather’s garage. That he never looked down as he walked and never doubted the sureness of his steps fascinated her. She’d have stumbled over an uneven paver or tree root, spraining an ankle, but not Todd. He was one of the most confident men she’d ever known, comfortable in his own skin to a fault, and it made him generous to others. He had nothing to prove.
“I thought I’d have this finished before the wedding, but I didn’t get it done fast enough.” He opened the door and turned on the light that hummed from a faulty bulb. In front of her was a pickup truck up on a lift, angled like it was taking off in flight. The truck was painted with a smooth dull-gray primer, as though it had been sculpted out of clay. She gasped.
Lara had a thing for vintage pickup trucks—the kind they made into Christmas ornaments, embroidered onto winter pillows, or put in front of businesses to make them old-timey. When she was a kid, they’d had an old truck just like this among the battered old circus equipment. One day it had been hauled away for scrap in one of Audrey’s reorganizations, the dead-grass outline of it remaining for several years like a scar. “It’s a 1948 Chevy.”
“A 1948 Chevy 3100 five-window,” he said. “Straight-six manual. I know how you like that.” He walked around the truck and pointed past the body. About ten feet from the truck she spied a dusty pile of brown metal that looked like mechanical guts that he’d tossed out. “Wait till you see what’s in store for her. Come with me.” Todd led her around the truck to a wooden work space, rolling up his sleeves and pushing his hair back, completely focused on the plans and notes he’d drawn that were sprawled across the space. He placed his hands down on the bench and scanned the photos and sketches.
After he’d left college, failing out of the engineering program at Virginia Tech, Todd had returned to Kerrigan Falls and, on a whim, started a classic car restoration business with a man named Paul Sherman who’d owned an old garage. Over the past two years, Sherman & Sutton Classic Cars had become one of the most sought-after vintage car restoration specialists along the entire East Coast, mostly due to Todd’s reputation as a muscle car restoration expert—Corvettes, Camaros, GTOs, Chevelles, and Mustangs. Lara would never have thought that an obsession with ripping apart car engines in his teens would turn into a livelihood he loved, let alone one that was so lucrative.
“You see here”—Todd pointed to a photo of the very same Chevy with missing headlights and mismatched paint that resembled patches—“the fenders had rust all over.” Lara saw from the photo that the entire truck had been a dull weathered brown when he’d found it. So engrossed was he in shaping this metal puzzle into a work of art and seemingly unhappy about some detail, he appeared to be lost in his own world, his arms folded and the line of his square jaw pulsing.
While Lara should have been looking at the posted pictures of the truck in various stages of ruin, she studied his face instead. Todd’s long nose could have been a hair too feminine if not for the elegant bump at the top. When he walked into a room, people stopped their conversations and looked up, wondering if he was someone famous, perhaps a film star returning to his hometown for a holiday. That he didn’t care, that he stood here agonizing over a sketch of a 1948 Chevy truck as a gift for her, was what truly made Todd Sutton beautiful to Lara. He never noticed the effect he had on people—or if he did, it never mattered to him.
“Where did you find this?”
“Oh, that’s the special thing.” He smiled devilishly, his hazel eyes shining, and pulled from a file folder a photo of the truck with faded livery painted on the side. “Recognize it?”
Lara took the photo from his hand and inhaled sharply. It was an old black-and-white image, the familiar logo painted on it almost overexposed in the sunlight—she felt a jolt of melancholy. It was her old truck. LE CIRQUE MARGOT.
Decorated in its circus livery, the old truck had once hauled a two-person crew to eighteen towns with the purpose of sticking posters up on every telephone pole, barn, and local business that would post them—the markets and pharmacies being the most likely prospects. This Chevy had sat among the rusted and abandoned circus props and trailers at Lara’s house for years, grass and vines growing up through the floorboards as though the ground were reclaiming it.
“So, I was driving by an old amusement park supply in Culpeper, and I saw it from the road. It was hidden behind some old roller-coaster cars. I didn’t know it was the old truck that sat out in your field until I was scrubbing it and saw the faded sign. Something about the lettering looked familiar, so I went to the historical society to see if there were any old photos of it in Le Cirque Margot memorabilia. And sure enough, I found plenty.”
A blonde was posed leaning against the front bumper. She wore shorts and had legs that would have made Betty Grable envious. Turning back to look at the truck, Lara smoothed its rounded fender. This truck had belonged to the Margot.
“I had hoped to give it to you as a wedding present, but it’s frankly been a bitch to find parts for, so it won’t be ready in time, I’m afraid.” He laughed a little too loudly, and she tilted her head and glanced up at him. Was he jittery? Todd was never nervous. He was searching her face, trying to read her, hoping this offering had meant something to her.
She pulled him toward her and kissed him, hard, then whispered in his ear, “This is the most thoughtful thing that anyone has ever done for me. I love it.”
He looked down and his forehead touched hers. “Lara, we both know that I haven’t always been so thoughtful.”
It was true. Throughout their history, there had been many transgressions, many girls, then—as they got older—women. While she chalked it up to youth, Lara had slammed doors on him, thrown beautiful bunches of roses at him, ripped up apology notes and his poor attempts at poetry. She’d had revenge dates and surprisingly fallen in love with one of them for a short time but always returned to this man.
“You aren’t getting cold feet, are you?” Lara tilted her head, only slightly joking.
He didn’t touch her, and for some reason it felt sobering and honest that he didn’t. He wasn’t trying to charm her. “I’m sorry that I had to grow up—that you didn’t meet me now instead of then.”
Lara laughed this comment off, but he didn’t. She realized as she looked around the room—the photos, the thoughtful gift suspended above her—that the change that had come over him in the last few years had been so gradual, it had escaped her notice. He leaned his tall frame against the workbench and faced her, folding his arms. “I was someone who had to grow into love. Not that I had to grow to love you. I always loved you, but I didn’t know how to love you, so what you got was the equivalent of an attempt at a work of art from someone who didn’t know how to draw. I said the words, but we both know often they were hollow. At times it was the very absence of you that shaped me. But that’s what it is, isn’t it? Both the presence and the absence of a person. The sum of it all. As a result, I feel it more deeply now. Love. My love for you.”
The silence between them was thick. She could tell he didn’t expect a response from her. There was so much shared history—both good and bad. Yet it was the things that were unsaid tha
t charged the room. Lara met his eyes. She saw this wedding gift for what it was—an offering—more a piece of himself than even marrying her could ever be. Every inch of that truck had been shaped and sanded by his hands—it was created by him for her.
He took her hand. Her lips met his. Todd was a great kisser—slow, deliberate. She knew exactly where to press against him to fill the spaces between them. He put his hands on her face and the kisses became deeper, harder. As they pulled apart, he caught a strand of her hair, twirling it around his finger and studying it.
“It’s nearly midnight.” She didn’t want to go.
“Ah, shit, not midnight,” he teased. He turned back to the perfectly sanded truck in front of them. “Here is the color she’ll be when she’s all done.” Taking her hand, he led her around and showed her a sample—the original Le Cirque Margot deep-red color that resembled a ripe Red Delicious apple.
She could easily imagine a lifetime of this. Smiling, she wished they could just go back to their apartment and their bed tonight. When they got back from their honeymoon in Greece, there was even a house, a stately Victorian with a turret and a wraparound porch, that they were looking at buying. “I really do have to go.”
Lara looked back at the truck before he turned out the light. “Will I see you tomorrow?” It was a joke, and she said it lightly as she opened the door and walked out onto the sidewalk.
“Nothing could keep me away.”
Kerrigan Falls, Virginia
October 9, 2004 (Fifteen Hours Later)
The church bells began to clang as the forecasted thunderstorm let out its initial boom, sending a torrent of rain over the valley. For weeks, the weather had called for clear and sunny skies today, but in the last hour, an inflamed purple sky had fixed itself unnaturally over the town of Kerrigan Falls.
Was this bad luck? An omen, perhaps? That was crazy. Lara wiped the thought from her mind. From her vantage point in an upstairs classroom, she watched a classic white convertible Mercedes idling just beyond the steps. Rain was soaking the lavender tissue-paper streamers taped to the car’s trunk, sending a stream of cheap ink down over the bumper and into the mud puddle below. She bit at a stray hangnail on an otherwise perfect manicure and watched as guests teetered across the gravel, then hopscotched over newly formed puddles and up the stairs in their good Sunday shoes, scrambling to get out of the downpour.
The dress—the enchanted version—complete with pearl choker, looked perfect. Her long, wild blond hair was now secured in an elaborate low twist. She’d taken off her new shoes, cursing herself for not breaking them in; then she decided to enchant them as well, the leather giving way under command.
It was nearly four thirty. Her wedding was about to start, yet no one had come to get her. Odd. She looked around the room. Where had everyone gone? She strained her neck to see. Her mother? Her bridesmaids, Caren and Betsy?
At the Chamberlain Winery five miles away in the heart of the Piedmont wine country, there was another group of workers preparing the reception. Long tables adorned with damask linens, mercury-glass votives, and elaborate hydrangea centerpieces awaited the 150 guests now seated in the pews and flipping through hymnals below her. Within hours, those guests would dance to a full Irish band overlooking the vineyard while dining on stations of cheeses from around the world—Manchegos, smoked Goudas, and bleus—then moving to short ribs, shrimp with garlic sauce, and finally a plated combination of a filet mignon with an herb-crusted salmon and patatas bravas. Around eight, they’d cut the wedding cake—a whimsical aqua-and-gold confection consisting of three layers of white almond cake topped with a cream cheese and buttercream frosting evoking just a hint of almond extract. Their friends and family would drink the wines that thrived during the humid Virginia summers—the peppery Cabernet Francs, tannic Nebbiolos, and creamy Viogniers all poured into heavy crystal Sasaki goblets with orbed stems.
Lara had designed every detail. In her mind, she was already worrying about the reception details, needing to get started, get moving. Minutes ago, the activity that had swarmed around her had all but disappeared and an eerie quiet had set in, the rattling boom from the storm providing a welcome reprieve from the stillness. She’d been dressed and ready for an hour now, the photographer capturing every moment of preparation from her hair, to the makeup, and finally the dress.
She lifted the bulk of her skirt and, like an extra from Gone with the Wind, rustled toward the hall. When she didn’t see anyone, she went back to the window, but then heard faint whispering and turned back to the hallway to see that Fred Sutton, the town’s undertaker and Todd’s stepfather, was talking with her mother in hushed tones.
Finally. It was starting.
Their voices rose and fell. Lara turned her attention back to the window, sure whatever details the two of them were tackling didn’t concern her.
Fred was heading back down the stairs when, out of the corner of her eye, Lara saw him stop, then march down the hall toward her, the floor pulsing with every heavy footstep. He placed his thick hands on her forearms with such force that he nearly lifted her up off the floorboards. His sudden movement shocked her so much that she stepped back, almost toppling over a half-moon kindergarten table behind her. Fred leaned in and whispered in her ear, his lips touching her borrowed diamond earring. “Don’t worry. We’ll find him.”
Had she misheard? Lara spoke her next words carefully. “He’s not here?”
Fred looked down at his black, mirror-shiny rental shoes. “Not exactly.”
What did not exactly mean? She looked over at her mother for clarification. Audrey seemed to be taking in this information as she would news of a car wreck.
Fred’s voice sounded more like a plea. “He went to clean his car and he wasn’t back when we left for the church. We didn’t think anything was wrong.”
It was the word wrong that struck her. Something here was terribly wrong, wasn’t it? She could feel it. “When did you see him last?”
“Around noon.” Fred consulted his watch as though it somehow held the answer.
Things like this didn’t happen. Lara searched her mind trying to remember the last bad thing that had happened in Kerrigan Falls. Old people died, although usually quite peacefully in their beds. There hadn’t been a car accident or a house fire in her lifetime. And certainly, people weren’t just plucked from the streets. They showed up for their weddings.
“Where is his tuxedo?” Lara’s face flared hot, and her throat began to tighten. She could imagine the rented tuxedo still draped across Todd’s childhood twin bed.
“It was still on the bed when we left.” Fred met her eyes. “We brought it… just in case—”
“Just in case…?” Lara cut in. This was all the answer she needed. A sudden hot pressure of tears welled up inside her. Looking down at the bouquet of tightly packed calla lilies in her hand, she felt as though she were holding a ridiculous prop. She lowered her arm and quietly dropped the bouquet onto the floor. If he’d left the tuxedo on his bed, Todd Sutton wasn’t planning on coming to their wedding, that much she was sure of. But why? When she’d seen him last night, he’d been so different. She’d never been surer of him. Grabbing her stomach, she felt sick. Had she been a fool? He’d let her down before, but never, never like this.
“Have you checked the bars?” Audrey snorted.
This was unfair, but Lara knew Audrey was protecting her. At some point, if Todd really failed to show, her mother would need to begin a detailed accounting of his faults.
But he will show up. Todd would not leave me here like this.
Fred lowered his head. “Yes,” he croaked. “We’ve checked everywhere. We also asked Ben Archer to inquire about any accidents, but there haven’t been any. He even called the hospitals in Madison and Orange Counties. Nothing.”
Ben Archer? If Fred felt desperate enough to involve the chief of police, then Lara understood that things were more serious than he was letting on. Fred looked smaller, shaken, remorseful.
>
“He’s probably just late.” Lara smiled, hopeful. That was it, Todd was just late. But late from where? Todd had many faults, but tardiness was never one of them. In fact, she thought back to their years together. She couldn’t recall ever having waited on him.
Until now.
“That’s probably it.” Fred’s smile was wooden, and the flap of hair doing its best to hide his bald patch was drooping down over his forehead now glistening with sweat. He held up his finger. “Let me check downstairs one more time.” He walked to the top of the steps and turned like a dutiful waiter. “I just thought you should know.”
Oh no. Lara had seen this look before. Fred was taking on the rehearsed demeanor he displayed when managing funerals and organizing grief—other people’s grief. It was his business—reducing the messiness of loss into a tidy, well-executed ritual. Now it was her turn. With his carefully chosen words, he’d begun preparing her for the worst.
“What time is it?” asked Audrey.
“Four forty,” said Fred without gazing at a timepiece.
“If he isn’t here yet, I need you to tell everyone the wedding has been postponed,” Audrey commanded. “Postponed,” she emphasized. “Until we can figure this out.”
Lara’s father, Jason Barnes, had been standing in the doorway waiting for his cue to walk Lara down the aisle. Now he was taking in the conversation and tugging free of his bow tie, finally ripping it off. A musician, Jason didn’t wear ties or tuxedos. “Let’s just wait a little longer for him. He’ll show.” He met Lara’s eyes and smiled.
That was Jason, the eternal optimist, Candide with a Fender.
As was the norm, Audrey ignored her ex-husband with an eye roll, turning her attention back to Todd’s stepfather. “You have ten minutes, Fred. That’s all. I will not have my daughter waiting up here for him any longer than that.”
Lara walked over to her mother. Audrey had intuitions about things; her abilities weren’t limited to enchanting gowns and turning on lights. Her mother could sense the hearts of people—what was in them—really in them, not just the pretend exterior sheen. If anyone would know whether Todd Sutton was on his way to the church or in the next state by now, it was Audrey. “Do you see anything?”
The Ladies of the Secret Circus Page 2