Seeking Refuge

by Alana Terry

  As he pulled a telephoto lens from the layers of cushioning tissue, Wes questioned her with his eyes. “Ok, this is strange. You don’t give duplicate presents—ever. But you gave me this lens years ago.”

  “Put it on your camera.” Alexa knew the moment his eye saw what made the lens special.

  “How—what?”

  She grinned. “Know that guy who did my porch last year—the weird one from church?”

  “The one who seemed to expect micromanagement but did his own thing regardless?”

  “That’s him. I got the idea from his brother.”

  “FBI guy?”

  Alexa nodded. “I actually found out about Ray from Mark—oddly enough. I go to church with him but didn’t really know him or what he did. He’s such a loner. I’ve decided to create a fictionalized persona for him and make him a red herring in a future book.”

  “Brilliant. Now tell me about the lens, because this is genius!” Wes adjusted it again and passed it to Alexa. “Check that one out.”

  “Gorgeous. Mark was telling me about a guy he knows who makes novelty lenses. When he described the kaleidoscope in a telephoto, I knew it was the perfect gift for you.”

  As he played with his lens, Alexa picked at the wrappings that littered the floor at her feet. Wes’ face grew sympathetic but firm. “Just open them, Annie. Dream up the most painful present you can imagine, and then these will seem like nothing.”

  ‘I wish I had the courage to toss them into the fire.”

  “Do it.”

  She picked up the first package and shook it. Just doing it made her want to cry. Shaking a package should be fun and frivolous, not an emotional safety precaution. “Where are your gifts from them?”

  “I won’t be getting any this year. They may forgive me by my birthday.”

  Guilt tugged at her heart. She’d been right. He’d pay for defending her—again. “You don’t have to do it. They like their judgmental attacks on me. I provide the necessary elements to spiritual superiority. Let them be happy with that.”

  “Don’t get bitter. Don’t.”

  She sighed. “That’s the sad thing. I’m not. What happened this time?”

  “Jeanne had endometrial surgery. The doctor says she’ll probably never have children.”

  “Oh.” It was worse than she thought. “You’d better start searching for a wife.” Even as she spoke, the weak joke fluttered and fizzled in a pile of ash between them.

  “I have no desire or inclination to marry, as you well know.”

  “I wish you didn’t feel that way. The odds of you marrying someone like mom are almost as slim as you being anything like Dad.”

  “I’ve done a fine job of protecting you from the mess, haven’t I? That’s a great thing to bring a woman into. I won’t do it.”

  She hated the self-recrimination in his voice. “It’s not your fault. Every time this kind of thing happens, you do what you can. You always speak the truth about me, even though you know it’ll affect your relationship with them. You do the kind thing. You aren’t responsible for the outcome.”

  As a distraction, Alexa stripped the wrappings from the gift—a book, if the size and weight could be believed. It was. A collection of children’s essays on how they wanted to change the world when they were adults—a book titled, Children: The Hope of the Future.

  “Oh, Wes. Look. It’s hitting Jeanne really hard. That is some seriously bad theology—children being the hope instead of Jesus. For her to make that kind of mistake—” Tears stung Alexa’s eyes. Her poor sister had always wanted marriage, home, and children—in that order.

  “I told her, but she didn’t listen.”

  “It’s been fifteen years, Wes. I don’t think anything will ever allow them to both forgive and accept. Maybe it’s just time to quit defending me and let them think what they want to think.”

  “No!” His voice filled the room. A little quieter he added, “The moment I do that, I’ll lose what little self-respect I have.”

  “What did they say this time?”

  Wes seemed surprisingly relieved at the question. “Same old thing. You don’t deserve to be married, but you have a duty, and if you hadn’t played the harlot, you could be married with a brood by now. You should be providing grandchildren at the rate of one every other year or two at the least, instead you’re the ungrateful daughter who doesn’t see her Christian duty and probably isn’t even saved. After all, what good Christian woman would turn down perfectly good marriage proposals from godly desert preachers and become a writer about evil things like murder—same old thing.”

  “Is he married yet?”

  “Yes. Another blow for Mom. He didn’t marry Jeanne—the idea that he wouldn’t want to didn’t occur to Mom—and now he has two sons. I’ve heard rumors of Lindsey expecting twins, but I don’t know if it’s true or not.”

  “He married Lindsey Summers? Oh, my—poor Jeanne. No wonder I hadn’t heard. That’s a pill even Jeanne couldn’t try to force me to swallow.”

  Wes’ confused face made her laugh. “I never disliked Lindsey, Wes. Jeanne just assumed I did and tried to make up to her to spite me.”

  “So why would—oh, because Lindsey brushed her off?”

  Alexa nodded. “Yep. It gave Jeanne just a bit of sympathy for me—as displaced as it is.”

  While talking, Alexa had whittled the paper from the other package. From the size and weight of it, she had expected a book. Her heart constricted as she pulled the rest of the wrappings aside. With a deep breath to steady her nerves, Alexa passed it to Wes.

  The moment it touched his fingers, Wes hurled it across the room where it splintered and shattered against the stove. His reaction, while understandable, seemed to stun even him. “Oh, Annie... I’m so sorry. I’ll clean it up. I just—”

  “It’s fine,” she assured him. “Why don’t you go for a walk? I’ll clean it up and call home while you’re gone. That way, I can honestly say you aren’t here.”

  Alexa began picking up the room, gathering wrapping papers and putting away her “gifts.” Wes sat glowering in the chair. He eventually forced himself out of it and slunk down the hallway to his room. She smiled as she heard the loud zippers of his suitcase—he’d be all right.

  Once she cleaned the mess, removed all slivers of glass from her “hearth” and carpet, and salvaged the mutilated picture from the splintery wreckage, Alexa took a deep breath and dialed the familiar number she’d learned in kindergarten. “Hello? Dad?”

  To her relief, her father’s deep, gruff voice answered. “Annie! You’re calling early. I don’t think your mother expected to hear from you until after lunch.”

  She chatted eagerly with her father, missing their walks for coffee on a brisk winter morning. She missed his gentle wisdom—wisdom that sounded so incongruous from such a harsh, gruff sounding man. But before she was ready, her sister demanded the phone and Alexa said goodbye to the only kind words she’d hear.

  “Is Wes there?”

  “Sorry, no. Why? I thought he had plans to spend Christmas there.”

  Jeanne was the only person Alexa knew who could whine with an edge that cut—deep. “He’d better not show up here. He was disrespectful to Mom last month and hasn’t called to ask forgiveness.”

  “Well, I doubt he meant to be disrespectful. Things sometimes come out all wrong, and you know how much he loves Mom.”

  “Don’t defend him, Annie. It’s your fault in the first place. You really have no idea how much pain you consistently inflict on this family. Sometimes I wish I didn’t feel such a burden to keep our relationship alive.”

  Alexa hoped the smile on her face would not become evident in her voice. Oh, how she too sometimes wished they didn’t feel such a burden to burden her with a relationship! “I’m sorry to be such a burden, Jeanne. You’re very longsuffering.” She swallowed hard and decided to switch the subject. Sooner than later. Get it over now. “Thank you for your gift. I look forward to reading the essays.
”

  “I’m sure they will be encouraging.”

  “Do you ever wonder,” Alexa tried again, knowing it was wasted, “if that’s what Jesus meant when he said we had to become like children? That we need to say simply intelligent things instead of trying to say something intelligent that is simply preposterous?”

  “Well, since neither of us is likely to hear these precious things from our own children, we’ll have to settle for the scraps that other parents share from theirs.”

  Before Alexa could formulate a response to that, Jeanne sighed. “Mom wants the phone. Merry Christmas.”

  Alexa took a deep breath. She’d need it for the next hour. She heard Jeanne comment on how “Annie is still trying to sound spiritual” and that she hoped it was a “genuine desire to come back to the Lord, but she wouldn’t hold her breath.” How sad that her family still didn’t know her.

  The conversation went as expected. Alexa listened as her mother gave advice on changing genres, moving back to her hometown, and a Biblical treatise on modesty, honoring parents, and “true repentance,” before adding, “Did you enjoy your gift?” Miriam sounded discouraged that Alexa had forgotten to show appropriate thanks for her gift.

  “Oh, yes. I’m sorry; I got distracted. I’m always amazed at who you will choose next.” Alexa stared at the semi-shredded photo of her classmate from high school. “Why Elliot?”

  “You went to his sister’s party that year. I found out her birthday was in September, so he was a logical conclusion.” Silence hovered between them before her mother added, “I want to meet my grandson.”

  Alexa tried to control her temper, but failed. “I told you a long time ago, and I’ll tell you again. Even if you guess, I’m not going to confirm it. It’s wrong. It’s illegal. I chose a closed adoption. Leave it alone.”

  She regretted the words the moment she spoke them. Nothing set off Miriam Hartfield faster than the implication that she could, much less did, do something wrong. Alexa braced herself for the verbal assault she expected, but it didn’t come.

  “I got your box from Bloomingdales. The perfume is wonderful. I hope you didn’t overextend yourself. I was telling your father that you must be in a heap of debt the way you spend money.”

  Her mother continued to ramble about every fault she could imagine that Alexa must possess. By the time Wes entered the door, Alexa lay exhausted on the couch with her phone hanging limply from her hand. He set it on the coffee table and sat beside her on the floor. She knew traces of exhaustive weeping must still hover, but she didn’t bother to try to hide them.

  “Why do I let her get to me?”

  “Because we’re not supposed to feel betrayed by our mothers. We keep hoping and trusting that something has or will change. Nothing ever does. That would get to anyone.”

  “I’m happy three hundred and fifty-three days a year. The monthly phone calls—those strip any hint of happiness from the remaining days.”

  Wes chuckled. “Sometimes you can’t help but talk like a writer. ‘Strip any happiness.’ Only you would say that.”

  THEY PLAYED SCRABBLE and Boggle. Alexa trounced him without any effort. He produced a mystery puzzle and gleefully beat her at her own genre. Prime rib roast sizzled in the oven while they pieced a puzzle and discussed her current mystery and its dreadful effects in her life.

  Wes answered the door while Alexa pulled Yorkshire pudding from the oven. At the sound of Joe’s voice, she called out, “Tell him to come in and eat while it’s hot. Oh, and have him set himself a place at the table.”

  Joe and Wes appeared in the kitchen, starting to protest, but he changed his tune. “I was going to say no thanks, but—”

  “When do you start your shift?”

  “Two hours. I—”

  “Then grab plates and silverware and sit down,” she demanded, waving her knife menacingly. “You’re dealing with a murderess by proxy here. Don’t risk your neck.”

  Joe passed a package across the counter. “I brought you something.”

  She fumbled with the clumsily wrapped package. She hadn’t purchased a gift for him and hadn’t expected one herself. Before she could respond or open it, Joe continued. “It’s nothing new or exciting, but I thought maybe with everything going on, it might help.” He pointed to the wrinkled wrapping. “I figured you’d be more likely to accept it with wrapping paper and a bow—reused one from a gift I got. Sorry.”

  “Clever,” she remarked, tearing the paper from the lumpy package. Alexa laughed. A voice-activated recorder. “You want me to keep it on me and record anything that comes up in case it’s important later?”

  Joe shook his head. “I just thought it might help with interviews or something.”

  Alexa murmured her thanks, smiled at him, and slipped it into her pocket. She didn’t have the heart to tell him she owned several. “Get in there. This is going to get cold. Oh, and where is Wes?”

  ALEXA FILLED HER SUITCASE, feeling the rush of last minute packing. It had been years since she had waited so long to pack for a trip, but she hadn’t wanted to miss a minute of Wes’ visit. Her brother watched, clearly amused, as she gathered things from all over the house, shoving them in place and pulling them out again in favor of something else.

  “Are you sure you’re ok with me going? I could still call Lorie and cancel. Darrin could chaperone with my ticket—or I can call again—”

  “No—go. I’m going to search your house and see if I can find anything to explain how this killer is getting your manuscript.”

  “The police checked—”

  “I know they did, but maybe they missed something. Remember my friend, Nolan? Computer guy? I’m going to ask him to come look and see what he can find.”

  “Just don’t get yourself killed. I’d like to know how it’s happening myself, but I’m too chicken to do any deep digging. I have visions of discovering that I’m an extreme schizophrenic who actually splits her body as well as her personality. Ugh.”

  “Annie?”

  “Yeah?”

  Wes peeked his head around her doorjamb. “Don’t take up writing horror. It’s not your genre.”

  Chapter 20

  ALWAYS AMAZED AT HOW at home she felt at The Drake, Alexa curled her toes into the sheets and attempted to relax. Her muscles, tense from a trip full of turbulence and a drunken seatmate, refused to relax and give into her exhaustion.

  A wave of nausea hit hard—fast. Instinctively, she rubbed the back of her neck, dreading the telltale knot and growing pain. With little speed and much impetus, Alexa moved into action. She knew she was in for a doozy when it started hard and with nausea.

  Thirty minutes later, the room, dark as she could make it, held only a thin swath of light from beneath the bathroom door—intended to help the room service attendant see as they brought in her cart. The coffee maker sat on her nightstand, plugged in and ready to keep her caffeinated whenever she awoke. Once food arrived—food designed to keep plummeting blood sugar levels from acerbating her migraine—she’d suffer in silence until she slaughtered the cerebral monster once again.

  SHE KNOCKED, ALMOST jumping when she heard a masculine voice on the other side of the door. “I’m coming... coming...”

  What was a man doing in Alexa Hartfield’s house? Was she all right? The memory of the threat against Alexa made her back away, nervous.

  The door opened and a scruffy-faced man with sleepy gray eyes smiled lazily at her. “Mornin’. If you’re looking for An—lexa, she already went to Chicago.”

  Heather’s suspicion grew. “And who are you and why are you in her house if she’s not home?”

  “I’m Wes—Hartfield. Alexa’s my sister.”

  “And I should believe this why? Why are you there if she’s not?”

  The man yawned, scratching his head much like her son did when he first awoke. “She had plans in Chicago so I said to go and I’d stay here. Oh, and the police chief can collaborate my story. I should also admit that I see my dentist
only once every other year. I’m a very bad boy in that respect.”

  Heather’s shoulders slumped as she turned to walk away. “Enjoy your stay.” She tried to hide the tears she brushed aside, but failed.

  “Um, are you okay? Did you need something from her? I can get it or help—or something?”

  It made no sense. The man’s voice was gruff—certainly not anything she’d expect to be comforting—but it unnerved her. She dissolved into tears, waving her hands at him and trying to hurry away again. Wes followed her and turned her around, almost pushing her into the house and to the couch.

  “What’s wrong?”

  His simple question disarmed her. She had expected him to ask who she was—what she wanted again. “I—I just came over to apologize.”

  “Are you the gal with the kids? Alexa will be glad to know you’re not still ticked at her. She felt terrible about the other day.”

  Weird—Alexa feeling bad when she’d been the jerk. “Yeah. I’m Heather. I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Mind telling me what she did to upset you?”

  She blushed. “Nothing. It was the guy—guy I was with—well—he—”

  “Sounds like a keeper for sure.”

  Her hands trembled until she jammed them between her legs. Wes didn’t speak. It reminded her of the way Alexa didn’t defend herself. Just let it hang there and deal with it later. Why she began talking, she couldn’t say, but minutes later, she’d spilled everything.

  WES LISTENED TO THE story, knowing that Joe needed to hear it. “Let me get you some coffee.” He pointed to a box of Kleenex. “Feel free.”

  “I would have thought she’d use handkerchiefs.”

  “Away from home she does. Alexa says that tissues in a purse are even more revolting than a handkerchief—something about lint all over everything.”

  In the kitchen, he pulled out his phone and stepped into the pantry. He dialed Joe’s number and told him that Heather had arrived. “You’d better hurry if you want to be around while she’s still talking.”