by Tess Rothery
Taylor joined her. It seemed silly to keep the artificial distance between the staff and guests now that they had all been exposed. "Are you sure you're okay? If you don't want to stay, but don't want to bring the virus to your family, you could go to my house. It's empty right now." All of Taylor's muscles seem to tighten in response to her spontaneous invitation. She didn't want Maddie in her house, but her normal human sympathy had slipped out.
"I don't know." Maddie pushed her hand across the table and then lifted it, revealing a piece of paper. It was a torn scrap of regular twenty-pound printer paper. On it was a one-star review from Yelp.
"Are you sure you want me to read that?" Taylor asked.
Maddie nodded. Taylor picked up the paper. The review was short, pointed, and painful. “Maddie Carpenter isn’t a doctor. She’s a murderer.”
"Oh, Maddie." Taylor felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. She’d had her fair share of negative online reviews, from Flour Sax’s limited selection, to her stilted appearance on their YouTube videos. But nothing like this.
"I can't prove who posted that. But I can guess who they're talking about." Maddie’s quiet voice could hardly be heard.
"Did one of your patients commit suicide?"
"Clients. I’m not a doctor. But no, none of my clients have died."
"You didn't have a client who killed someone did you?" Taylor made an effort to relax her shoulders. She’d be no help to Maddie at all if she was only sending out tense energy.
Maddie shook her head. "No."
"I don’t understand. Was this just spite for no reason?” Taylor turned the page over so she wouldn’t need to see the cruel words again.
"I had a client overdose on her meds, but she didn’t die. I'm not a physician, or psychiatrist. I can't prescribe medicine. So, the dosage can’t have been my fault.”
“Of course not.” Taylor crumpled the sheet in her hand, wishing she could destroy it completely.
“There’s nothing in my file that indicates she would have done this on purpose, either. Her physician agreed with me. The girl claimed it was an accident and everything we know about her says this had to be true. She ended up in the hospital, but she survived.”
"And her parents blame you?” Taylor gazed out the window. Selling quilt fabric was so simple compared to having the emotional health of young people in your hands. So safe. She longed to be back there, refolding remnants.
"I don't think it was her parents. They were miserable, and they did take her out of my counseling, but they never blamed me. I think it was her older brother."
"But why would he blame you?”
"Her brother was a teenager at the time. His prefrontal cortex wasn't fully developed. He thought, as I was the counselor, I should have used talk therapy to keep her from making a mistake with her dose.”
Taylor allowed them to sit in silence as she thought about the scenario. Everything about it was unfair. The girl hadn’t died, so Maddie wasn’t a murderer. But that review lived on the internet forever. A mark as bold as a scarlet letter.
“My client went to the ER. She had her stomach pumped. She came home. Obviously, the ER doctors suspected that it might have been a suicide attempt, but it just wasn't. Truly."
"Hardly murder." Taylor didn't know the girl’s background nor how likely Maddie was to lie to herself. But she hadn’t died. That had to be the end of it.
"This review’s been around a long time. The timing is about right for the brother to have written it. I tried to have it removed, but what can you do?"
"There's no one else who would say something like that? I don't mean because of something you did. But is there no one else who is maybe paranoid? Delusional?" Taylor asked.
"You're not the only person who wasn’t happy.” Maddie stared into the distance with stony eyes. “I try to do more, to be more, to these children than just a counselor. Every now and again that causes problems.” She turned to Taylor with a guarded look. A challenge, almost. “Sometimes when a person tells you their deepest, darkest secrets, they resent you afterwards. It hurts to invest emotionally in people only to have them turn on you.”
Taylor nodded, but didn’t speak. These words were pointed. Directed at Taylor for killing an age-old friendship over a misunderstanding.
“I find the positive experiences outweigh the losses so heavily that I'm not going to stop how I practice."
Taylor squeezed the crumbled slip of paper in her fist. The Maddie she had known as a teenager had been the same. Deeply loving. Deeply committed to her friends. And though Taylor had never thought about it, she had seen this pattern before. Girls had come to Maddie with their heartbreaks and problems, only to reject her after, sometimes viciously. It had been too hard to know someone was walking around school holding your deepest insecurities and fears.
"My home is yours,” Taylor repeated, “if you need it. It's a bit of a walk from here, but it's not bad, and the weather is perfect. If this gets to be too much, go to my house. I'll put a key in your room. No questions asked. It’s all stocked up with toilet paper and plenty of food. There's even a new little window AC in my bedroom. It’ll be comfortable. You don't have to put up with this if you don't want to."
Maddie looked at Taylor with such hope that Taylor flinched.
A shadow crossed over Maddie's face. "Thank you, but perhaps I can find out who is doing this, and we can use these two weeks to sort out our problems."
"Was the patient—"
"Client." Maddie interrupted to correct Taylor.
"Sorry. Was the client who accidentally overdosed friends with someone who's here? Maybe Pyper? Or even Aviva?"
Maddie shrugged. "I couldn't say."
“Maybe the girl’s parents were friends with a guest.”
“I don't know.”
"It's a small town,” Taylor said. “We’re all practically related.”
"This client came to see me from Salem. They were concerned about privacy and wanted someone who wasn't a part of their inner circle. Any personal connection to Comfort would be quite a coincidence."
Taylor left it at that. She’d done every single thing she possibly could. And she needed to get ready for the day’s first sewing lesson.
Chapter Five
A brief staff meeting led to three decisions. The first was their need to immediately order a whole lot more food. What Aviva lacked in recipe picking she more than made up for with her knowledge of meal planning and ordering. They had bought exactly enough food for ten women for three days.
“I can get an order through Aunt Jess,” Aviva offered. “Wholesale prices will help. Do I have to stick to the vintage cookbook?”
“Please God, no.” Sissy stood at the end of the kitchen island where the staff had gathered. “Reuben’s Diner recipes only please. I assume you know those like the back of your hand.”
“It would be easier,” Aviva agreed.
Belle looked to Taylor for support.
“The canary pudding was fantastic and the fruit punch. Can we sneak in a few little treats from the recipe book? Just so it still feels like an event?” Taylor suggested.
“I could do that,” Aviva agreed.
“That would be nice. Just to make it special.”
“Can I order a lot of pop too? They did drink Coke and stuff back then.”
“I’d kill for a diet Coke.” Sissy let out a stiff breath. “Would that work for you?”
Belle nodded mutely. Her face was stiff, but her eyes were sparkling, like a child who would cry if she tried to speak.
“Three days together is a lot.” Taylor traced the squares of the expansive butcher block that covered the old work bench from Comfort High School’s abandoned shop program. “The more we can fill our time with comfortable, familiar things the better.”
“Good idea. Can we print the Reuben’s menu and have them vote on their favorites before you send in a food order?” Aviva rubbed her hands on a thin, hand embroidered flour sack towel. Belle had stacke
d dozens of towels just like it in a basket on the counter. Pretty heirlooms from both of their grandmothers.
Belle took a deep breath. “That’s a great idea. Even if we never do anything like this again, I want this to be a good memory during a bad year.”
“We know, sweetheart.” Sissy’s tone softened. “This might be a rough couple of weeks. It might have been a rough weekend, even. But we know you’re doing your best, and we’re here to help.”
Belle swallowed. “I’ll put a copy of the Reuben’s menu at every plate during lunch. They can put marks next to their top three meals. Then Aviva and I can start planning.” She turned to her friend. “That is, if you want my help.”
“Want it?” Aviva gave Belle a side hug. “I’m desperate for it. There’s no way I could do this without you.”
Sissy pushed herself away from the island. “Time to set up the calisthenics. I have a feeling regular exercise is going to help all of us.”
“Tay,” Belle stopped her sister. “We have the firepit tonight. I have a ghost story planned, but maybe we need something more cheerful.”
Taylor thought for a moment. Sometimes it was good to lean into your fears. Fiction was a powerful emotional vent for those times when the reality was full of real terror. On the other hand, the tension between the ladies might be too much already. “How about a fairy story instead? Know any tales about fearsome mice who fight for their glory?”
Belle smiled. “Despereaux, maybe?”
Somethin scuttled behind Taylor.
“Ack!” Belle’s high pitch cry was accompanied by a jump backwards.
Taylor spun in time to see a long rat tail shiver behind the kitchen laundry basket.
“Goddammit,” Belle muttered quietly.
Taylor wasn’t used to even mild swears from her sister, but she couldn’t blame her.
“Rats in the daytime are a bad sign.” Belle’s voice was quiet.
A lump in Taylor’s throat stalled words of encouragement. It was bad enough to have a bully on the premises. But to have a bully and rats was too much.
“So long as the story isn’t a ghost story, it’s probably fine,” Taylor stated. “I can’t imagine sending a bunch of worked up women to bed at midnight only to have them hear those little beasts rustling in the walls.”
“Not the walls. Please not the walls.” Belle moved toward the stairs. “I don’t care what Jonah and his friends are doing in that dumb influencer house. I’m calling him. He needs to fix this rat thing.”
“Good luck. Wait,” Taylor called to the back of her sister.
Belle turned.
“Let’s see if Lorraine will tell us old family stories tonight. We can tell the Ghost stories after the exterminator comes.”
“Crap.” Belle stared at the floor. “I mean. That is a good idea, but I just realized we can’t have an exterminator in. We’re quarantined.”
Crap indeed.
The atmosphere for their stitchery lesson was cozy. It seemed the idea of a two-week vacation suited Maddie, Lorraine, and Pyper. Maddie appeared to have recovered from her morning fears. Her eyes were soft and her face glowed with a secret sort of smile.
Lorraine, an expert needle woman, sat with perfect posture in a wing back chair. The pieces of the next project were laid on her lap. “A needle book. Excellent decision.”
The commendation surprised Taylor—both in receiving it and in the way it filled her. She remembered having the same sort of glow when her instructors at the art college praised her design choices. She would never have made her mark in the art world, and everyone knew it, but those times when she had been told she had a good eye for balance, or that her bold color decisions had been successful, had the ability to float her for a whole semester. “Thank you. These little flannel books allow for a good scope of practice.” She illustrated the simple but strong stitch needed to hold the felt pages together. “It can be as little as that, but if you like, you can blanket stitch the edges.” She demonstrated the simple finishing stitch. “And finally, the covers can be left plain or embroidered. Tomorrow we’ll learn three simple embroidery stitches to be used on your handkerchief and your needle book.”
“Very nicely done, indeed.” Lorraine graced Taylor with a smile. “You could have been a teacher, you know. You have a good mind for task progression.”
Taylor sat with her needle book ready to finish the edges, answer questions, and hopefully keep her guests’ minds off their virus exposure.
Pyper stitched her little needle book in silence. She looked frustrated, and maybe a little bored. It was funny, she knew the girl was a couple of years older than Belle, but she just struck Taylor as young. Immature, even. And she wanted to mother her a little. Give her a treat to put a smile on her face. While the older women all had responsibilities they felt like they were getting an escape from, Pyper had likely sacrificed to stay here two weeks. Perhaps income from a job. Or maybe alone time with people she had carefully selected for an exposure circle. Maybe even a boyfriend. The idea Pyper could be dating that angry young man who’d left the terrible review for Maddie circled through Taylor’s thoughts. Hopefully that wasn’t the case, but she might be missing some other young man. “Is anyone ready for a little tea? We’ve got regular and herbal as well as cookies baked by the lovely volunteers at Sacred Grounds.”
“It’s like you read my mind.” Pyper smiled with appreciation. “It’s not that I don’t like this stuff.” She scowled at her fabric. “But it’s hard. And eating cookies and drinking tea isn’t hard at all.”
Maddie’s needle slipped smoothly through her light pink felt. “We ate a large breakfast, and yet, I could use a little something. It’s an interesting thing, boredom. Our brains search for the most gratifying activity. Since we need to eat to live, it immediately latches on to food. Food will fix this feeling, it tells us. It always has before.”
Taylor glanced out the window.
Her little session had bored her guests.
“It’s a shame that such gratifying and useful work can register as dull to the human mind. We are evolving, I think, and without the bright lights and loud noises of an electronic reward, we reject an activity.” Lorraine’s analysis was a firm censure of Maddie’s non-judgmental comments.
“I’ll just text Aviva that we’re ready. She’ll bring the cart of tea things up through the elevator.” Taylor moved to the front hall to text. She was boring when she taught, which hadn’t bothered Lorraine. Lorraine valued the material more than the delivery. But this wasn’t some university. It was supposed to be a fun weekend away. Why hadn’t Belle realized Taylor would fail at this? Her YouTube videos had failed to draw an audience. In fact, new edits to Laura’s old work continued to bring in ad revenue even so many years after her death.
But Taylor’s were boring. The few views and limited comments agreed.
Help!!! Bored guests. We need cookies!! She let her text carry her sense of panic, hoping it would be a nice release. But lots of exclamations points did nothing for the pent-up frustration of the sender.
Belle delivered the snacks instead of Aviva.
“I don’t think it’s a bad thing, this turning to food when our minds are lost.” Maddie took one chocolate chip studded oatmeal cookie. “I think it’s sort of beautiful that our unconscious mind is prepared to keep us alive at all costs.”
“Interesting theory.” Lorraine had a cup of Rooibos tea. “While that is a lovely sentiment, the course of history reveals that our minds are constantly doing exactly the things that are most likely to get us killed.”
Maddie’s face blanched.
Pyper took two cookies. “That’s cheerful, isn’t it?”
A familiar skuttling noise came from somewhere behind Taylor, near the fireplace. She flinched. Not rats. Not now. Please, anything but rats.
“We’ll work the calories off with your mom, don’t worry.” Maddie laughed. “You know she’s not up there messing around.”
Pyper burst out in bright la
ughter. “Oh gads. I forgot about that. Yes, if she’s in charge of fitness, it doesn’t matter that it’s vintage. We’ll sweat off however many cookies we munch between breakfast and lunch.” She took a third, to emphasize how much she meant it. “Ew.” She turned the cookie over. “What on earth is that?” She split the cookie in half and pulled out a piece of paper. “I’ve never heard of fortunes in oatmeal cookies.”
Maddie turned her eyes to her stitchery.
Pyper crumpled the paper and tossed it into the little waste basket next to the tea cart.
“That does not bode well.” Lorraine reached into the basket and removed the bit of paper. She glanced at the deep scar on her arm. She attributed those wounds to a mysterious serial killer she called “The Cutter” because her mind had never been able to accept the abuse she’d received from a boyfriend as a young teenage girl. “Taylor, I think you need to see this.” Lorraine took the paper to Taylor, her steps slow and careful. “I’m afraid it might be happening again.”
Chapter Six
Taylor took the paper and stepped back into the parlor. The other ladies did not need to know what was going on. She smoothed the paper out and tried to be reasonable about what she saw.
Sacred Grounds was a volunteer run coffee shop.
The bakers were just nice church ladies.
What could have fallen into cookie dough on accident?
And why would they not have noticed it?
Her fingers traced the smooth, thin strip of paper. It felt like a receipt. She could see this being a receipt. No big deal. There wasn't a lot of text on the paper. So perhaps it was some kind of sample or test that was run to make sure the machine was working.
It didn't look like anything she'd ever come across, but that didn't mean it couldn't be the case. The simple text made it difficult to tell.
After all, the only thing on the paper was the repeat of three digits in a row over and over and over again.
666 666 666
Even Taylor with her lack of formal religious education knew those numbers were meant to be some kind of curse, or bad luck at least.