by Laura Wolfe
I pictured the long, narrow bag they’d handed to Charlie when they’d arrived that weekend, the one containing the rifle. It was an exact match to the one Joe held now, camouflage print and all. The tremor in my hand now spread along my spine and into my core. It was true that plenty of people owned guns for lawful reasons—hunting and self-defense—but it was also true that just as many people didn’t.
I swallowed against my parched throat and dug my toe into the dirt, cursing my malfunctioning computer. I hadn’t even verified that Joe was an artist. What had I done? Oh, how I wished that Charlie had been here to handle this. I tried to think of anything in the lease that restricted guns, but I didn’t recall seeing any such wording.
Joe climbed the stairs to his apartment, the rifle-shaped bag in one hand and a large black suitcase in the other. Where was he getting all this stuff? From a storage unit? An art studio? A Michigan Militia compound? I hadn’t asked enough questions.
Yanking off my gardening gloves, I stuffed them into the pocket of my windbreaker and attempted to look casual. I wandered up the driveway toward Joe’s SUV. As I got closer, I could see dozens of shoebox-sized boxes inside. The apartment door burst open and I jumped.
“Morning, Gloria.” Joe’s voice boomed against the calmness.
I stepped away from the vehicle. “Good morning. I see you’re settling in.” I wanted to ask him about the weapon, about why he had it, but I didn’t want to make waves. People could be so sensitive about their guns, especially out here in the boonies.
“Yep. Yep. Lots of supplies, that’s for sure.” He motioned toward the SUV. “This is my last load.”
“Oh, my. That’s a lot of boxes.” I shifted my weight to the other foot. “Where are you bringing them from?”
“Clearing out my storage unit in town. Brought all this stuff up from Detroit in a U-Haul a couple of weeks ago and needed somewhere to keep it until I found a place.” He winked.
I smiled, the heat in my body cooling. Joe had a perfectly reasonable explanation. Art supplies. He wasn’t a criminal or a terrorist. Honestly! I needed to stop expecting the worst from people, to stop jumping to conclusions. There was an exercise somewhere in my Thirty-Day Life Coach workbook on this very subject. I’d seen it and skipped over it, and now I was paying the consequences. His camouflage bag probably contained a roll of tracing paper or an oversized paintbrush, not a gun.
I shoved my hands in my pockets. “When is your first art fair?”
“Next weekend. Just a small one up in Cross Village.” He folded his massive arms in front of his chest. His fingernails were grungy and black, and I wasn’t sure if the color was from dirt or paint.
I pulled my gaze from his discolored nails. “That’s wonderful. I’d love to see your paintings sometime.”
“Doing two shows nearby in July. Harbor Springs and Petoskey. Or, if you want to see it sooner, most of my stuff is stacked in that huge closet inside.” He pointed toward the apartment.
“Oh.” A fist of anxiety tightened in my stomach at the thought of being alone inside the garage apartment with a giant man with a scar through his eyebrow who I barely knew and who may or may not have a gun. “I don’t want to intrude. I’ll come by one of the art shows. When you’re all set up.”
Joe stared at me, expressionless. I hoped I hadn’t offended him.
“Sounds good.” He returned to the stack of boxes.
A door clicked shut in the distance and I squinted, trying to make out activity behind the line of trees. It was Beth. A second later, the engine of her truck hummed and headed toward us. The truck followed the path of tire tracks through the gap in the trees and over the grass until intersecting with my dirt driveway.
“Have you met Beth yet?” I turned toward Joe, eager to change the subject.
“Nope.”
The sun reflected off her windows, making it impossible to see inside. I waved anyway and the vehicle eased to a halt. The driver’s window lowered. Beth’s lipstick matched the hot-pink sundress she wore. A white knitted cardigan covered her shoulders, wooden beads looped around her neck, and metallic sunglasses shielded her eyes. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have guessed she was a film star.
“Hi, Gloria.”
“Don’t you look nice!”
She grinned. “Thanks. I’m going to meet Amanda for lunch.” She glanced at Joe, her smile fading.
“This is Joe,” I said. “He’s renting the garage apartment for the summer.”
“Hi,” Joe gave Beth a mock salute.
Beth stared, nodding slightly, but didn’t speak. Her mouth pressed into a thin line. She must have been taken aback by his appearance. The shiny scar, dirty nails, soiled clothes, and greasy hair.
“He’s an artist,” I told her again, hoping to put her at ease. Guilt tugged at my insides for having done anything to make her uncomfortable.
“A starving artist,” Joe said, laughing at his own joke.
“Nice to meet you.” Beth didn’t laugh. She looked at me. At least, I think she did. I couldn’t see her eyes through those mirror-like glasses.
A motor rumbled, drawing our attention to the end of the driveway where a police cruiser crawled toward us.
“What’s this?” I looked from Beth to Joe, but they looked equally confused. Beth cut her engine and stepped down from her truck.
The cruiser stopped a few feet in front of us, blocking the driveway. An officer with closely cropped black hair and a square jaw stepped from the car and held up his badge. “Hi folks, I’m Officer Bradley. How’s everyone doing?”
“Just fine,” I said, although my heart thumped inside my chest. “Is something wrong?”
“No, ma’am. There’s no need for alarm. We’re canvassing all the outlying areas today for leads relating to the death of the young woman found on the beach in Petoskey a few days ago.”
Dread rippled over my skin. “Have they identified her yet?”
The officer dipped his chin. “Yes. The information was released this morning. Her name was Ella Burkholter. Only twenty-six years old. She was a hairdresser in town.”
“Oh, my.” My eyes traveled to Beth, who looked scared to death. Her mouth curved downward and her fingers clutched her keys so tightly her knuckles turned white. “What salon?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t SpeedyCuts where I went for a trim every three months.
“It’s called Fringe.”
I nodded, releasing a breath. I’d never heard of Fringe.
The officer hooked his finger into his belt, surveying each of us in turn. “We’re asking people if they’ve seen anything suspicious or noticed unfamiliar people passing through their properties.”
I stepped closer to Beth. “Well, no. I don’t think so. These are my tenants. Beth Ramsay. She’s a travel writer.” I motioned toward her and she forced a smile. “And Joe Miles. He’s an artist.”
Joe stepped forward and handed a business card to the officer. “I do oil paintings.”
Officer Bradley inspected the card and nodded. “How long are you folks in town for?”
“They’re staying for the summer,” I said.
“Anyone notice any suspicious activity in the last few days?”
Beth shook her head. “No.”
Joe shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“Me neither,” I said, deciding not to make an issue out of Joe’s camouflage bag.
“Okay. Here’s my card if you do notice anything.” He fanned out three cards and we each took one. He tipped his head. “I appreciate your time.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I hope you find whoever killed poor Ella.”
“We’re working on it.” He slipped back into his car and pulled a U-turn, heading in the direction of my nearest next-door neighbor.
The three of us stood in silence.
“What a world we live in,” I said.
Joe shook his head and kicked at the dirt.
Beth straightened her sunglasses and turned away from me. “I’ve
really got to get going.”
“Good luck with your lunch,” I said as she climbed inside her vehicle.
She raised her window and shifted it into gear. Her truck sped away from us, a dust trail lingering in the air. Joe let out a raspy cough.
I tried not to take Beth’s coolness personally. Not everything is about me. That’s what The Thirty-Day Life Coach said, and I could see that it was true. Beth was probably worried about being late. Or nervous about becoming the next victim of a crazed killer who was still on the loose. No one could blame her.
Joe squared his shoulders toward me. “Don’t worry, Gloria. I’ll keep a lookout for you.”
A breath of relief squeezed from my lungs. “Thank you.”
“Well, time to finish unpacking.” Joe stepped toward his SUV and opened the back door, pulling out a fresh stack of boxes.
I turned toward my farmhouse, steering my thoughts away from the unexpected police visit. Meandering toward my front door, I inspected the shoots of the irises and lilies pushing up from beneath the soil. It wouldn’t be much longer before my front path would be lined with flowers. Maybe they’d even bloom while Ethan was here if the warm weather kept up. He’d emailed me his flight information this morning. A week and a half from now, a plane would land at Pelliston Airport and my son would be on it. He planned to stay for ten days. Ten days! That was more time with him than I’d dared to dream of. I wanted to share the news with Beth, but out in the driveway with Joe and the police officer hadn’t been the right time.
Twelve
Elizabeth
Before
It was Wednesday night. A full twenty-four hours since I’d stumbled across the land mine constructed by my cheating husband and his home-wrecking girlfriend. The parts of me that survived the explosion lay in a heap on the couch, my eyes puffy and painful from the tears that wouldn’t stop. I’d called into work. No details for Gwen, only that I was “sick.” My brain couldn’t come up with anything more specific or convincing.
There were seventeen missed calls from Jason on my phone, nine messages. I’d only listened to the first few words before throwing my phone across the room so hard that it left a dent in the drywall. More recently, the texts had started flowing in, one after another.
I’m sorry, I love you, I don’t want to lose you, Can I come over? Let’s talk this out.
Lies. All lies. He disgusted me. My phone beeped again. I stared at another message from Jason.
I’m staying at Robert’s house until we can work things out. Please call.
I tried to think of what to do next, but my mind spun in a suffocating blur as if someone was holding my head beneath the water and demanding I make crucial life decisions. I wouldn’t call Jason, but I did need to talk to somebody. This burden was too much to bear on my own. My closest friend, Lydia, was a willing shoulder to cry on, but I couldn’t confide in her yet. Her life was just a little too perfect, every one of her dreams executed according to her master plan. She was happily married to her adoring husband with a one-year-old daughter who looked like the Gerber baby. Not the person whose shadow I wanted hovering over me at my most vulnerable moment. Besides, once I told her my situation, she wouldn’t be able to keep it to herself.
My mom and I had never been especially close. We didn’t spend time together or have much in common, really. Still, I knew she loved me, and I needed her more than ever before. I pressed her number on my phone and held my breath as it rang.
“Elizabeth?”
“Yeah.” The emotion bubbled up in my throat, but I held it back.
“What’s up?”
“It’s just… um.” The words refused to form. I hugged my knees to my chest and burst into tears.
“Elizabeth, what’s wrong? Is it the baby?”
I panted, struggling to calm myself down. “No. No, it’s not the baby. It’s Jason.”
“Is he alright?”
“He’s been cheating on me.” My voice cracked as I squeaked out the words. “I walked in on him and another woman last night.”
“Oh my God,” she breathed heavily.
I gasped for air, “I don’t know what to do. My whole life is ruined.”
“Ben. Ben!” My mom talked in a loud whisper, apparently trying to get my dad’s attention. “Sorry. I’m here.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I said again.
“Have you talked to him? How long has this been going on?”
“I don’t know! I’m too pissed to talk to him.” I gritted my teeth. “I chased him out of the house last night. He’s staying at a friend’s.”
“What’s going on?” I heard Dad say in the background.
“Jason’s been cheating on her,” Mom whispered, although I could clearly hear her. “Dad’s here. I’m putting you on speaker.”
“What? Wait, don’t…” I was too late. The phone clicked and my dad spoke.
“I’m sorry, darlin’. I never trusted that guy. He was always a little too slick for my taste.”
My tears began flowing again.
“You’re too good for him, Lizzie,” Dad added.
“You need to talk to him, Elizabeth,” Mom said. “Find out why he did it. You have a baby on the way. You owe it to the baby to try to work things out.”
“She doesn’t need to work things out with that loser,” Dad said.
“Ben, they’re having a baby. The baby needs a father.”
“Not a father like that.”
My parents argued between themselves while I listened.
“I’m going to talk to him,” I said, interrupting. “I just haven’t been able to yet.”
“Why don’t you come home and stay with us for a while? Caroline would love to have you here. She’s eighty-seven days sober and just completed her first session of cosmetology school.”
“She’s doing great,” Dad said.
I cringed at the thought of heading back to my parents’ cramped house in Kalamazoo where my twenty-five-year-old sister still lived in her childhood bedroom. I wondered why the conversation always had to circle back to Caroline, and why they talked about her like she was four years old.
“I need to stay here, in my house,” I said. “I have a job.”
My mom sighed. “Well. We can come to visit you, then. It sounds like you need some company.”
Silence hovered between us. Dad cleared his throat. Maybe it would be good for me to have some other people around. People who had my back, even if they sometimes drove me crazy. Maybe my mom would make her homemade chicken soup like she used to when I had the flu.
“Fine. Okay,” I said. “This weekend?”
“We’ll drive over on Friday,” Mom said. “Caroline will be so excited.”
“Caroline’s coming?” I asked, swallowing back my disappointment. I’d hoped it would just be my parents. Caroline could be so unpredictable, so high-maintenance.
“Yes. Of course. She’s really excited about becoming an aunt.” Mom lowered her voice to a whisper, “And we don’t want to leave her on her own just yet.”
“Okay.” I slumped forward, too beaten down to argue about it.
We said our goodbyes and hung up. I tipped my head back into the cushion and closed my eyes. Nausea swirled in my stomach. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten. Had it been the Mediterranean wrap at the airport? That was over a day ago.
I inhaled, gathering my strength. My head was light and dizzy, but I needed to get this conversation over with. My arms trembled, my finger barely steady enough to press Jason’s number. He picked up on the first ring.
“Liz. Babe. Please forgive me. I swear it will never happen ag—”
“Who is she?” I asked, interrupting. My voice was calm at first.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jason said. “I ended it with her. It’s over.”
“WHO IS SHE?” I screamed, unsatisfied with his answer. My voice projected a maniacal rage, “WHO IS SHE?”
“Her name is… Sarah. Calm down, Jesus Christ
.” His tone was exasperated, as if I was the one who’d destroyed our marriage.
“Sarah what? What’s her last name?”
“That’s all I’m telling you right now.”
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long has this been going on?”
“It was just one time. I swear.”
“You lying piece of shit. I don’t believe you.”
“Babe. I don’t know what you want me to—”
“When did you meet her?” I was done with his fluffy bullshit answers. I wanted information. Just the facts. “Where did you meet her?”
He breathed through the phone, slow and steady.
“TELL ME!”
“Okay. Okay. I met her about three months ago at a restaurant.”
Three months ago. I counted backward from April: March, February, January. Everything that had happened between us during the last three months had been a lie. Even the conception of our baby. My throat burned, dry and parched. I swallowed anyway. Some sadistic force inside me needed more information, more details. “Which restaurant?”
Jason sighed. “The Salted Olive. What does it matter?”
The Salted Olive. Each new revelation felt like another punch in the stomach. I’d been to that restaurant a year or so ago with Lydia.
“Who were you there with?”
“Some investors. Guys I barely know.” Jason sighed. “Look, I made a mistake. It was the worst mistake of my life, but it’s over. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”
“You can’t make it up to me. Don’t you get it?” I paused, hugging myself with my free hand. “No amount of jewelry and cars and purses can fix this. You’ve destroyed me. You’ve destroyed our family.”
“Liz, I’m sorry. I love you.”