The First Time I Fell

by Joanne Macgregor

“Hugely uneasy at you being so close to the edge of that drop. I so badly would not like it if you fell.”

  I took the hand he held out, and he tugged me a few steps back to relative safety.

  No! Not him.

  Okay, this time I was sure — the words were definitely inside my head, and also definitely not my own. They sounded and felt like they came from … But that couldn’t be. Even so, I released Ryan’s hand.

  “Let’s go,” I said. Then, catching a faint scent, I sniffed the air like one of the beagles. “Can you smell cola?” I asked Ryan.

  “Like the drink? Or a candy?”

  “Like the lip balm flavor.”

  He sampled the air. “Nope.”

  He turned to go, but I closed my eyes and leaned into the awareness of the scent. This time, the images that rippled into my mind’s eye were from my own memories.

  Colby, his skin golden in the warm summer light, stands in front of me on the edge of the ledge above the swimming hole. He’s wearing a pair of cut-off denims that hang low on his hips, his hair is wet from previous leaps into the swimming hole, and he’s smiling. His brown eyes are filled with love and mischief.

  “I can’t!” I insist, my back pressed against the rough gray-green rock of the quarry wall.

  “Sure you can. Just stop overthinking it.”

  “It’s too high.”

  “That’s what makes the falling fun.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Okay, then, we’ll do it together.” When I hesitate, he steps closer. “Didn’t you promise ‘always and forever?’”

  I nod, slip my hand into his and hold on tight. My heart hammers in my chest, and blood rushes in my ears.

  “Always,” I say, my voice hoarse with fear, because I’m sure I’m about to die.

  We run the few steps to the edge and leap into the air in tandem, screaming, “Forever!” as we fall.

  I opened my eyes. Once again, I was standing on the miserable hill, on a cold, cloudy day. I haven’t forgotten you, Colby.

  “What did you say?” A few yards away, Ryan had turned to face me.

  Had I spoken aloud? I wiped my eyes and hunched my shoulders against the past.

  “Nothing,” I said, and headed back to the path.

  – 23 –

  At two minutes past ten on Saturday morning, I drove up the crushed stone driveway and parked outside the huge colonial-style house. A Virginia creeper clawed its way up the front walls, weaving through decorative black shutters, headed for the slate roof. In summer, this would be a shimmering wall of green, and in fall, a spectacular display of flame-colored leaves and purple berries, but now it was an intricate web of bare vines, tendrils and suckers gripping the wood and stone.

  The front door was answered by a diminutive woman in a maid’s uniform.

  “Hi, I’m Garnet McGee. I have an appointment to see Bethany,” I said, omitting the fact that the appointment was scheduled for the following Friday and at her office.

  The maid looked unsure. “She didn’t tell me about it.”

  “She must have forgotten to mention it.”

  “She’s still doing exercises in the solarium.”

  “I’m a little early. Can I wait inside, please? It’s wicked cold out here.”

  Reluctantly, she opened the door and led me through a vast hallway with Persian rugs on hardwood floors, a vase of pink stargazer lilies well past their prime on a marble-topped half-moon table, and a huge sunburst mirror with radiating copper rays on the wall, to a front reception room.

  “Please wait here,” she said.

  When she seemed inclined to remain in the doorway, keeping a watchful eye on me, I asked, “I could really use a cup of coffee. Any chance I could trouble you for one?”

  As soon as she left the room, so did I. I tiptoed down a long hallway, peeping into rooms on either side. The interior of this mansion was elegantly decorated in a clean modern design that was the antithesis of the froufrou onslaught of the Andersen house. Hearing the clinking of china coming from one end of the hallway, I headed in the opposite direction, passing an informal living room with a flat-screen TV bigger than my parents’ kitchen table and a study with shelf-lined walls bearing books that looked like they’d been arranged according to color. I peeped inside the last room. What on earth?

  Blinking, I stepped inside and rotated on the spot, taking it all in. The shelves which covered one wall were stacked with dozens of glittering trophies and award shields of every size and shape. I stepped closer to read the inscriptions: Baby Miss; Little Miss Beauty — first princess; Little Miss Sweet Potato — personality award; Little Miss Charleston — first princess; Georgia Junior Queen (1994), Miss Teen America — queen; Miss Southern Belle and more. A glass cabinet against the opposite wall housed tiers of sparkling crowns and tiaras, and the remaining walls were covered with framed beauty pageant sashes and photographs.

  There were pictures of what was surely Bethany Ford as a rosy-cheeked baby holding a plastic rattle in the shape of a jeweled scepter, and then a bunch of her as a toddler — blond curls piled high upon her head, face made up to resemble a grown woman, wearing sequined gowns and bathing suits and heels so high, I’d be afraid to walk in them. Then there were images of her as a teenager sitting on glitter-encrusted thrones or clutching enormous bouquets of flowers. And in every picture, she was smiling, smiling, smiling; my cheeks ached just to see it.

  In the biggest picture on the wall, two preteen girls with their heads tilted against each other smiled sweetly for the camera. The one on the left, whose pretty face supported a towering cascade of blond curls, was easily recognizable as Bethany. The girl on the right was wearing a glittering crown, and with her straight black hair, pale skin, red lips and big cornflower-blue eyes, she looked a lot like a miniature version of Laini Carter.

  Lipstick and sequins! Was this what Denise had meant about Bethany and Laini’s past? When Kennick had said they’d been childhood friends, I’d imagined them growing up in the same neighborhood. This was something else entirely.

  I went back to the pageant pictures and studied the images of tiny queens and princesses. It looked like Laini — if the dark-haired girl was indeed her — had kicked butt in the earlier pageants of the 1980s, but I couldn’t find her in any of the later pictures. Had she dropped out of the pageant circuit? Put on a few pounds? Stopped smiling? The most recent photograph was a lineup of ten Miss America finalists from 2000, which included Bethany. She wore a sheath gown of glimmering silver and the widest smile of all of them.

  Drawn by the sparkle of rhinestones and crystals, I walked over to admire the crowns that had once graced Bethany’s head. I picked up the tawdriest of them all — a gold plastic tiara studded with pink and yellow “gems” — and placed it on top of my head. Turning to a mirror, I smiled wide enough to crack my cheeks and crooned sweetly, “If I am chosen as Miss Sweet Potato, I will work tirelessly for world peace. And I promise to end world hunger. With yams.”

  An impatient throat clearing startled a squeal out of me. I spun around, sending the crown flying off my head and rolling across the carpet, where it came to rest at the maid’s feet.

  “What are you doing in here?” she demanded.

  “Sorry, I just– I was just admiring the bling.”

  “This is Miss Ford’s trophy room.” She picked up the crown, polished it carefully with a cloth to wipe off any smears I may have left, and restored it to its rightful place on the shelf. “I think I must take you to her now. She will soon be finished with the exercises.”

  The solarium had glass walls, a domed glass ceiling, and dozens of potted palms and hanging ferns. Bethany Ford — in knee-length yoga pants and a cropped top — balanced above an exercise mat, with all her weight resting on her forearms and the balls of her feet. The maid waited patiently while I admired the perfectly straight plank, the lean, hard body and the intense focus.

  After a minute she pushed back to sit on her knees, eyes closed and hands resti
ng palm-up on her thighs. If I was a pageant judge, I’d award her ten out of ten for grooming. Even though she’d just completed a serious workout, she still looked perfect — from her smooth, blonde bun to her perfectly manicured pink finger- and toenails.

  Expelling a deep breath through her nostrils, Bethany Ford opened her eyes, checked the display on her Apple Watch and frowned up at us, taking in my odd eyes without comment.

  “The lady says she has an appointment with you, Miss Ford,” the maid said.

  She turned to go, but Bethany halted her to reel off a list of instructions. “I’m ready for my smoothie — kale, pineapple and chia seeds. Please empty the paper-bin from the shredder in my office into the recycling bin, and don’t forget to clean all the birdcages before you go.”

  “Yes, Miss Ford. And Miss Laini’s flowers? Do you want me to leave them until Monday?”

  Bethany stared bleakly at a corner for a few moments, then sighed deeply and said, “No. I suppose it’s time to put them on the compost heap.”

  “Yes, Miss Ford.”

  The maid left, and Bethany turned her attention to me. Before she could ask what the heck I was doing in her house, I said, “That plank was a thing of beauty! I’ve never been able to hold one for longer than ten seconds.”

  Truth was, I’d never tried planking at all.

  “It takes practice and discipline,” she said, eyeing me like she doubted I had either. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t your appointment with me next week?”

  “You’re absolutely right, but Kennick Carter suggested I try to chat with you sooner. He said you’re a kind and generous woman, and would probably help me if I asked nicely,” I said, wondering if my nose was growing from all the lies I was telling. “Poor guy, he’s really suffering. As you must be, too.”

  Her erect posture slumped a little, and she sighed. “I can give you five minutes, I suppose.”

  “Thanks, I really appreciate it. I know you must be an exceptionally busy woman.”

  Was I laying the flattery on too thickly? I didn’t think so. Maybe your average Joe would suspect an ulterior motive in my ass-kissing attitude, but I was talking to an ex-beauty queen. If anyone welcomed recognition, attention and appreciation, surely it would be one of them?

  A phone buzzed on a nearby bench. Bethany grabbed it, checked the screen, and tossed it aside with an impatient sound before sliding her hands back down the mat, arching her back upwards and tilting her head backward in what looked like a seriously uncomfortable pose. Slinking tiger, stretching cat? I estimated the amount of body fat on her angular frame to be 0.0%. In clothes, she looked fabulous, but up close in exercise gear, she looked thin to the point of being bony, like if a bear took a bite out of her, he’d get mostly gristle and sinew.

  “That looks like such hard work!” I said.

  “A hard worker — that’s me,” she said in the direction of the glass dome above her. “One day, the inscription on my gravestone will be: she tried harder.”

  I wondered what mine would be. She doubted everything and trusted no one, perhaps? Or, here lies a woman who preferred hot peppers to most people.

  Bethany curled her spine the other way, like an angry cat, and with her nose almost touching the yoga mat, demanded, “Well, why did you want to talk to me?”

  “Kennick thought you would have valuable insights on Laini. He said nobody knew her better than you.” He’d said no such thing. “You were her best friend, is that right?”

  With a final stretch, she finished and stood up, dabbing at the sheen of sweat on her neck and face with a small towel, being careful not to smudge the mascara, eyeliner and nude lipstick I now saw she wore. Wearing makeup for an early-morning yoga session in the privacy of her own home — was that vanity or insecurity?

  “Yes, I was her best and oldest friend. We knew each other since we were little ladies.”

  Little ladies. That fit. I doubted Bethany had ever been a little girl. I couldn’t imagine that bejeweled and bedazzled creature in the old photographs ever climbing a tree or making mud pies.

  “Where was that?” I asked, even though I knew.

  “In the South. I’m originally from Savannah.”

  “Right, I can just about hear it in your accent. So how did you two meet? Were you at school together?”

  Bethany slipped into a long kimono and tied the sash. “We worked the Southern beauty pageant circuit together.”

  “Beauty pageants?” I said, like this was new to me. “The two of you must have been spectacular together — you with your tanned skin and golden hair, and Laini with her white skin and black hair.”

  “We were,” she said and promptly burst into tears.

  – 24 –

  “Oh dear, I’m so sorry. Here, sit down,” I said, guiding Bethany to a bench and patting her on the shoulder as she sobbed. I should’ve offered to leave her in peace, but I didn’t. “Can I bring you anything?”

  She shook her head, blotted her eyes on the kimono sleeves and, with a visible effort, regained control of herself.

  “I’m so sorry, I don’t usually —”

  “Please don’t apologize. You’ve suffered an enormous loss.”

  “It is,” she said, staring at me earnestly. “It is enormous.” She ran a hand over the midnight-blue silk of the kimono. “This was hers,” she said. “It still carries the scent of her fragrance. I wear it because it helps me feel closer to her. Kennick has left all her clothes and things with me. He says I should keep what I want and give the rest away. But I won’t. I won’t get rid of any of it.”

  She smoothed her already-sleek hair and then got up and exited the solarium. I followed, hoping she wasn’t taking me back to the front door.

  “I’ll have my smoothie in the living room, Sofia,” she called in the direction of the kitchen, then led me into the same room I’d waited in earlier. Once we were seated, I tried to get the interview back on track.

  “So, you and Laini were in beauty pageants together?”

  “We both started when we were very young, and we did well, too, if I do say so myself. One or the other of us was always winning. Laini more often, if I’m honest. It was an extraordinary thing. We used to joke that she was the only contestant with black hair that ever won pageants. My mother said it was her talent that gave her the edge,” Bethany said with a shrug. “When she was tiny, she had this amazing routine with a bunch of dancing poodles, and then when she grew older, she swallowed fire and juggled flaming torches. Playing with fire — literally.” Bethany gave a small, sad laugh and traced a pink nail over the pattern of her upholstered chair. “It always wowed the judges.”

  “What was your act?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  “You didn’t come here to hear me reminisce about the old days, Miss McDonald. Can we get to business?”

  Not correcting her on my name, I said, “Right, of course. Laini’s brother has hired me to investigate his sister’s death.”

  “I don’t understand why. It was a suicide.”

  “That hasn’t been fully established yet.”

  “But she left a note! The police showed me.”

  “Her brother doesn’t believe she killed herself.”

  “I think he might be in denial. Isn’t that a stage of the grieving process?”

  I nodded, conceding the point. “It sounds like he and Laini didn’t spend much time together in recent years, so I thought you might be able to tell me more about her,” I said. “About the Laini you knew.”

  “Yes,” Bethany said thoughtfully. “She was a different person with each of the people in her life.”

  “Who was she with you?”

  “She was —” She paused, considering. Fully expecting her to say “beautiful” like everybody else had, I was surprised when she said, “Bright.”

  “Bright? As in clever?”

  “No. Well, yes, that, too. Laini was no one’s fool. But I meant bright like she had an inner glow. She could light up a room, you know? S
o much energy and laughter — when she was feeling good, that is.”

  The maid came in, bearing a tray with a tall glass of dark-green sludge.

  “I should have offered you something,” Bethany said. “Can I get Sofia to make you a smoothie?”

  “No, thanks!” It came out sounding rude, so I smiled apologetically and added, “Really not my thing, kale smoothies.”

  Sofia gave me a narrow-eyed gaze. “I think you’d like a cup of coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” I said meekly. When she left, I asked Bethany, “Did you and Laini stay in contact all these years?”

  “No. She dropped out of the pageant circuit before her teens, just gave up.” She shrugged, as if Laini’s decision still baffled her. “We lost contact. I connected with her online a couple of years back, and when I found out she was in marketing, I offered her the position here.”

  I watched, fascinated, as she swallowed down the entire glass of green gloop in one go. I would rather have stuck pins in my eyes.

  “It must have been good to get to know each other again.”

  “It was. We had girls’ nights together, watching old movies and painting each other’s toenails, laughing and gossiping about the people in town.” Her smiled faded, her lips trembled, and her eyes welled. “What will I do without her?” she asked, her voice bleak.

  Hoping to avert more crying, I asked, “What was she like at work?”

  She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “Gifted. She added such value to our organization — the business won’t be the same without her.”

  No doubt Bethany would have to lean more on Denise’s assistance. Denise might even get Laini’s old job. Should I warn Bethany about my suspicions in that quarter? Probably. But not yet.

  “Did Laini like her work?” I asked.

  “Of course! She said she’d finally found her niche. Although …”

  “Yes?”

  “She resisted taking extra responsibility. Don’t get me wrong, Laini was excellent with innovative ideas and creativity, but she wasn’t great at handling pressure. Sweet and Smoky had grown by leaps and bounds, and we were planning to expand further. I wanted her fully in on that. I even offered her half-shares in the business. That was a mistake, I see that now. I blame myself.”