“Oh, Harper,” murmured Olivia, embracing her daughter’s shoulder.
No longer willing to be discounted, Darren shoved his way past Janice and Roger to stand next to his daughter. But Harper, unwilling to be sandwiched between the two, jerked away from her mother’s firm grasp and moved next to Irwin clear on the other side.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Darren asked Harper. “I told you, I only wanted to talk.”
“Well, she obviously doesn’t want to talk to you,” spat Olivia.
“That’s because you turned her against me,” snapped Darren. “Can you arrest her for that?” he asked Officer Moore.
Officer Moore spread his arms wide, forcing them to keep their distance. “No laws have been broken—yet,” he said, glaring straight at Darren. “But I strongly suggest you leave, sir, before I have to take you in for disturbing the peace.”
“For shit’s sake,” Darren snarled. “And what about her?” Darren asked, chin jutted at Olivia, nostrils flared. “Why am I the only one in trouble?”
“Mr. Crane…” warned the officer.
“This is some bullshit,” mumbled Darren. “And I don’t know who you are, mister,” he said, facing Irwin, “but you better stay away from my kid.”
Irwin, never one to be easily intimidated, stood taller. “Oh my,” he said to Darren as he rolled up his sleeve, making a big hoopla of looking down at his watch. “Would you look at the time? You’d best be running, Mr. Crane,” he said, apparently unfazed by the man’s surly stares and threatening glares. “You wouldn’t want to be late checking in with your parole officer. Or perhaps I can assist and make the call?”
Darren’s face blanched. His piercing eyes darted from one face to the next, ready to counterattack, but Officer Moore beat him to the punch.
“Good advice, Mr. Crane,” advised Officer Moore, one hand resting on his holster. “I strongly suggest you take it.”
Beaten, Darren took a step back. “Fine. I’m going,” he said to the group, “for now.” He pointed a dirt-stained finger in Olivia’s face. “You can’t keep me away from Harper forever. She’s my daughter, and I have rights.”
The group watched Darren stomp off, mumbling and cursing, shoving chairs not even in his way and basically acting like a petulant child. At one point, they saw him knock down a few books on display just before bolting out of the building. A few startled library patrons quickly moved out of the disgruntled man’s path as he continued to yell his way out of the building.
Harper sighed. “Thank you,” she murmured to Irwin, but Irwin didn’t hear her; he was too weighted down by the realization that somehow, and only God knew how, he had just inherited another wayward teenager burgeoning with father issues.
Irwin wasn’t the only one concerned. With everyone else seemingly transfixed by Darren’s appalling display of dysfunction, Olivia concentrated her attention on Harper and whoever this Mr. Abernathy person was. With eyes narrowed into crinkled slits, she studied Irwin’s unremarkable face, mesmerized by his off-beat, somewhat ill-conceived get-up. Most of all, she questioned what Harper saw in this man’s blatant, ornery disposition, who looked as uncomfortable in his skin as a leper does in theirs…yet Olivia had to give it to the old guy—especially when Darren tried to force his way next to Harper. However, the fact that Harper chose to stand near Abernathy over her had hurt.
For the longest time, Olivia would have sworn up and down that Harper was incapable of open displays of trust, but apparently, she had been wrong. And not only trust but appreciation. But there had been no mistaking Harper’s softly offered thank you to Abernathy. For whatever reason, Olivia saw that her daughter trusted this strange, contentious old man.
There better not have been any funny business going on. I’ll castrate him.
To Irwin, she said, “I want to thank you for helping my daughter.” Olivia made the first move and reached out to shake Irwin’s hand. “I hope we can meet again,” she said disarmingly, pumping his hand but not letting go. “But under better circumstances the next time.” She had been all ready to ask Irwin to speak to her for a minute alone when Harper jumped in.
“I have to study,” Harper announced to her mother. To Irwin, she gave a slight chin-nod. “Thanks again.”
Plan foiled.
Olivia offered Harper a strained smile. “Good night, Mr. Abernathy,” Olivia called out after the departing old man, already lumbering away with his head bowed and his coat collar tucked high around his ears.
***
Mother and daughter took their time walking home, stopping along the way for Olivia to rest her sore feet. At one point, Olivia tried to pry Harper for information about Mr. Abernathy, but the girl shut her down quick.
“Let’s not do this right now, okay, Ma? I’m tired and just want to go home.”
Upon arrival, Harper sprang ahead, taking two steps at a time, even getting her key to work on the first try. She held the door open for her mother, who lagged behind, using their rickety stair railing for support.
Without lights, the place looked pitch-black. Once inside, Harper dropped her backpack on the floor, flipped the overhead light on, and hung up her jacket. When she turned around, she gasped. “What the hell…” She stopped dead in her tracks, ashen face frozen in utter disbelief.
Damn it!
In all her rush to get to the library, Olivia hadn’t bothered to clean up the chaos caused by Darren. It had been pretty awful when it happened, but now coming home and seeing the destruction in bright, glaring light made the room look all the worse. Glass shards from her treasured, broken vase were scattered everywhere. Torn, mangled flowers littered the couch and floors. A massive wet spot remained prominently on the wall where Darren had flung it. A standing testament to the horror that transpired in Harper’s absence.
Immobilized, Harper stood trembling, unable to speak. Her eyes toured the room. Harper looked down. A broken piece of the vase near her boot triggered a flash of terrifying memories to resurface. The room began to twirl and spin. She no longer had control over her legs, and her knees started to buckle. Without warning, she collapsed to the floor, tearing at her hair and moaning.
Olivia watched in fear as her stubborn, self-determining, fifteen-year-old, strong daughter transformed back into the terrified nine year old kneeling at the foot of her mother’s bed, while she begged her to wake up to breathe. “Harper!” Olivia cried, rushing forward to envelop the quivering child in her arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby.” Olivia couldn’t stop apologizing. “I should have warned you, but I left in such a hurry…I wasn’t thinking…”
“Leave me alone,” Harper shrieked through fast, shallow breaths. “Don’t touch me,” she screamed, thrusting her palms out, squirming out of her mother’s embrace. “You promised…” Harper crawled towards her backpack and hugged it close to her chest, rocking. “You promised, you promised.”
Olivia snatched Harper’s sweater, attempting to tug her back, but all it did was stretch. “I know how this looks, but I swear to you, I swear to you, I didn’t break my promise. If you’d just let me explain…”
But Harper couldn’t hear her mother. Too trapped behind a wall of grief. “It’s happening again,” she moaned, slumped over, swaying. She pressed her pallid face into her bag, hiding from the destruction surrounding her. “Just like I said it would…all over again,” she sobbed. “All over again. It’s happening,” Harper kept repeating between large gulps of choked air.
Olivia leaned forward, edging as close as she could to Harper without actually touching her. She so badly wanted to soothe her daughter’s pain away. Comfort and protect her from the terror threatening to steal her lucidity.
Come back to me, Harper, Olivia’s eyes pleaded. Let me be here for you.
Olivia thought about how quickly everything could change. How only hours before she’d felt that she and Harper had finally gotten past some of the hostility plaguing their tenuous relationship. But now, that all vanished as if it never
happened. The two remained seated amongst the splintered glass and strewn debris, close but not close enough. Within reach, but not touching. Hearing, but not listening.
“Please,” Olivia whispered through pleading, quivering lips, but Harper would neither move nor respond to her mother’s appeals, much too lost in a netherworld of hurt, just like before.
CHAPTER 8
Cornelia
Irwin tugged the garage door down. As usual, Bones, named by his owner’s unhealthy obsession with Star Trek and all things sci-fi, lay waiting for Irwin by the side entrance of his house, in anticipation of his daily bowl of milk and nibbles. His long tail flitted and curled. His penetrating, judgmental, emerald eyes remained glued to Irwin’s every movement. Usually, Irwin would have already fed the small, not-homeless-but-acts-like-he-is-cat, but normal no longer applied to any aspect of Irwin’s tumultuous life.
“Don’t blame me,” Irwin grumbled at the cat as he inserted his key into the side door. Unfazed, Bones continued to wrap his furry body around Irwin’s lower leg. “Would you please stop that? And where is your human mother?” Bones purred in response. “And why doesn’t she feed you?”
“I am here, and I do feed him,” responded Bones’s human companion, Ms. Cornelia Parish—writer, author of cozy murder mysteries, and local historian. “He’s just greedy and plump.” Of course, this fact made the cat’s name more nonsensical.
Cornelia labored up the stoop steps, trailing Irwin inside. She lifted a stack of unopened mail and began sifting through it, making herself at home at his kitchen table. “You might want to open a few of these sometime soon,” she said, indicating another growing pile of unopened envelopes shoved in a napkin holder.
“I pay my bills.”
“Bully for you, but I wasn’t referring to your bills.” She waved a pale cream envelope in the air. “This one looks mighty official. Says here it’s from the Law offices of Mun…”
Irwin plucked the envelope from her fingers.
“Testy.” Cornelia dropped the mail where she had found it to fetch mugs from the cabinet for tea. “Having any?”
“Might as well. I didn’t get a chance to eat yet.” Irwin turned on the kettle, then stuck the envelope between the pages of his leather journal. The same journal used for all the notes he took for a book he swore he planned to write but hadn’t actually started. Irwin lifted the semi-cooked, room-temperature potpie to his nose and took a whiff. “Safe enough.” He placed it on the floor next to a bowl of milk. “There you go, you conniving, self-absorbed, hairy interloper.”
Bones circled and purred.
“You’re welcome.”
“What?” asked Cornelia, standing by the counter, staring off into space.
“I was talking to the cat.”
“The who? Oh. Right. Him.”
Irwin turned the flame under the kettle higher. “Where were you just coming from?”
“Who me?”
“No. Bones.”
Cornelia rolled her eyes. “Doctor’s appointment.”
“Oh? Rather late. Is everything all right?” Irwin noticed Cornelia’s lips pucker.
“Just my yearly check-up,” she said, averting her eyes.
Something was going on, but Irwin, already drained, didn’t press her. Without further discourse, Irwin and Cornelia each settled into their regular routine, setting the table like an old married couple. Cornelia placed an Earl Gray tea bag into each of their cups, their agreed favorite. Irwin preferred his tea with two heaping teaspoons of sugar and no milk, while she fancied her cuppa super light but without sugar.
Cornelia popped opened a tin of Danish butter cookies while Irwin set out two small dessert plates, napkins, and two spoons. “Ew,” she groaned, face scrunched up. “These cookies don’t taste right.” She turned the tin over to check the date. “Not expired. Still, sort of stale.”
“I just bought them,” said Irwin, grabbing one for himself. He took a bite. “No, they taste fine. Are you coming down with a cold? That can change your taste buds.”
Cornelia sniffed the cookie and took another bite. She wrinkled her nose. “Are you sure? They taste weird to me.”
Irwin popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth. “Nope. They taste perfectly fine to me. You may be coming down with the flu. Touches of flu can get nasty this time of the year. I really think you should give your doctor a ring.”
“Enough already,” she unexpectedly snapped. “I heard you the first time.”
Irwin didn’t respond.
“Change of subject. Did you go today?” Cornelia asked, much like she did every Friday evening over tea and cookies.
“I did.”
“And? Did you tell her?” Oddly enough, Cornelia never spoke of Gilly in the past tense, endearing her to Irwin more. After Gilly had died, many of their mutual friends stopped coming around or asking about her or Dakota. The absence of hearing her name spoken aloud hurt, but the erasure hurt more.
Cornelia had known Gilly before Irwin and had been the one to introduce them. The two women met back when Cornelia volunteered at the high school where Gilly taught. The school had been on the lookout for volunteers to help run the student theater group. Gilly, always resourceful and outgoing, weaseled Cornelia’s name and information from a mutual associate and made her pitch.
Initially, Cornelia had not been enthused by the idea of working with amateurs, much less teenagers, but by then she’d been widowed for over three years, and the loneliness and boredom had been particularly stifling. Moreover, her authorship didn’t do much to curb the feeling of isolation since she mostly worked from home, stuck behind a computer screen. Except for the occasional luncheons or her monthly interactions with the historical society, Cornelia socialized little—not counting time spent with her neighbor and close friend, Irwin. Another introvert—of a degree that put her life of loneliness to absolute shame.
And so Cornelia half-heartedly agreed to Gilly’s request, but it had turned out to be one of the best decisions made in a long time, propelling her back into the world of the still living.
The two women, Gilly, the perky and pretty high school English teacher turned stage director, and Cornelia, the flippant murder mystery writer, trying her hand at scriptwriting, wound up working closely together. The pair had hit it off from the start, becoming fast friends. For the duration of the play, the two women remained inseparable, spending rushed bag lunches in the school’s auditorium, munching on sandwiches and chips, and swapping intimate details of their less than perfect lives.
Cornelia often confided in Gilly about the lonesomeness of widowhood.
“Since Bill died, I barely hear from any of our mutual friends.” It had made Cornelia sad how most people couldn’t handle death, choosing to trickle away as if widowhood, by proximity, was something to fear, something contagious. “When he first died, I’d wake up feeling disoriented, my nightgown drenched in sweat. During the day, I could put most of my fears to the side, but at night, alone, my imagination would kick in, and I’d get scared thinking about what would happen to me, if say, I ever became seriously ill or disabled. Even facing the most mundane tasks overwhelmed me. My throat would contract, and my head would begin to pound. In all probability, I probably had a full-fledged anxiety attack. Scary as hell. Feels like a heart attack. Shoot—I remember once how a broken window latch or single drip from the faucet brought me crashing to my knees, sniveling. Can you imagine? Over a broken window latch!”
In fits of laughter, Cornelia shared with Gilly how scared she felt the first time she brought her car in for an oil change and inspection. Cornelia had known, of course, where to go, taking it to the same place her husband brought both their vehicles for years, but for the entirety of their long marriage, that had been Bill’s understood “job.” So, not wanting to appear stupid, Cornelia practiced car-mechanic speak in her head as if she were writing dialogue for one of her mysteries with her playing the role of protagonist. She spent countless hours researching automotiv
e maintenance as if studying for an exam. As it turned out, all her energies had been for naught since the mechanic, after a polite hello, barely said five words to her the entire time.
Gilly disclosed specifics about her marital difficulties, the humiliation that came from dealing with a venal man, known in closed circles as a shameless philander who favored younger women’s beds over hers. She explained in painful but exacting detail how Stan barely helped around the house or with their daughter. “He barely comes home. Most of the time you can find him playing multiple rounds of golf with his work buddies or sliding his ass on some barstool, smelling like a bottle of cheap cologne.”
Cornelia put down her bag of potato chips to search in her purse. “Bingo.” She handed Gilly a tissue.
“Stan cheats on me with anything with two legs. The younger, the blonder, the stupider, the better.”
Cornelia despised Stan. She’d heard the rumors and seen him on occasion. Gilly wasn’t exaggerating. The man was a malignant adulterer. “You deserve better than him.”
Gilly snorted. “Yeah, well, if you know anyone who’s a real man…who can hold down a job, has minimal emotional baggage to contend with, is trustworthy, loyal, gentle on the eyes, and wouldn’t mind a teenager thrust down his throat, let me know. I filed for divorce last week. Stan will probably try to contest it, but if he doesn’t, I’ll be free in ninety days.”
“Oh, Gilly, divorce? That’s a big step.”
“One I should have taken years ago. I wanted to stay together for the sake of Dakota, but it’s so tense in the house now that even she is begging me to be done with him.”
“I’m so sorry.” Cornelia popped a chip into her mouth. “No. I’m not. I mean, I’m sorry that your marriage didn’t work out, of course, but you deserve so much more than Stan can give.”
Gilly stuck her hand in the proffered snack bag and snatched a handful of chips. “I never wanted to be a single parent.”
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