Ezra just smiles at me and shakes his head.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m just ... at a loss for words, I guess. Or the right words anyway.”
We sit in silence for several seconds.
“How long have you been thinking about this?” I ask.
“A couple of months.”
Months? This is worse than I expected.
“And you’re just now seeking my wise counsel?”
“I wanted to be sure it was really an issue. That it wasn’t just panic or cold feet, like you said.”
“And is there a certain girl who made you start to question your future vows?”
He sits in silence a minute, chewing. The woman at the table nearest us throws her head back in laughter interrupting the light jazz momentarily.
When he responds, “no,” all the air in my lungs comes out in a whoosh. I cover it by coughing. What counsel can I give, wise or not? The fact that he’s even asking my opinion says a lot about Ezra. His level of trust in me is much higher than my own.
“Maybe you should talk to one of your superiors. Not Father Benoir, but there must be someone else you could confide in.”
Ezra nods, swallows.
“The thing is, part of me doesn’t want to confide in a priest because ultimately, isn’t their job to get me into the ranks? Priests are a dying breed.” Ezra rubs a hand over his face. There’s a piece of white medical tape across the back and feathered scratches extending beyond the plastic. Suddenly I want to grab his hand across the table.
“Most of them are at or close to retirement age and new, young guys going in, well, it’s not really happening. At least, not much,” he says.
I clear my throat and tuck my hands in my lap. “Maybe a counselor then? Or a pastor at a different church.”
I take a big swallow of the wine our server delivers as Ezra takes another bite of bread, chewing thoughtfully.
“That’s not a bad idea. Someone at another church would have a better perspective, maybe. At least they’d be a little farther removed from the situation. Yeah,” Ezra nods and then a slow smile spreads on his cheeks. “I know one in the area that I could ask. Yeah,” he says again. “That’s a good idea.”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” I say.
He flicks his fingers against mine. “Thanks.”
“Solving problems is what I do,” I say, taking another swallow of wine.
Chapter Twenty-three
What is wrong with me? For the eightieth time I wish that Sophie were a real sister, someone I could confide in. Why did I notice so many things about Ezra yesterday that I’ve never seen before? The way his hair waved, the scent of his aftershave—piney and spicy—and then there was that weird urge to take his hand in mine.
I punch the bag in front of me, shaking my head to get rid of the images and questions. Focus on work, getting stronger and losing these last ten pounds. Everything else? Forget it.
The bag swings back and I plant another jab and then a cross-jab in rapid fire. I do it again and again, alternating my punches with some kicks. The workouts haven’t gotten a lot easier, but at least I can breathe through the pain now. Plus, I don’t feel like crying after five minutes so that’s an improvement.
The cell phone in my bag on the floor nearby rings and I groan and try to look disgusted. Truthfully? A break from my workout is appreciated. The guy on the bag next to me grunts and plants another punch, the bag swinging in response.
I don’t bother unwrapping my hands but flip the cell phone over and see “number unavailable.” It’s the special pay-as-you-go phone that only receives calls for Sunflower Specials. I walk to a nearby corner, cover my free ear and answer.
“Hello?” I say.
Nothing. Then some static and slow, labored breathing.
“Hello?” One more try before I hang up. Probably some weirdo trying to get a thrill by freaking me out.
“This Reba.” There is more labored breathing and then a small sob. I press my free hand harder on my outside ear.
“What’s the matter?”
“Leanne ...” she breaks off and for a minute I think she’s disconnected, but then I hear another small sob. “He ... he hurt my baby.”
I’m squeezing the phone so hard my fingers are nearly numb. Grabbing my bag, I walk quickly to the locker room.
“When?” I ask. My heart jackhammers in my chest. My gut is tight and sick.
“Last night. My husband won’t call the police, says nothing happened, that Leanne was being a stupid teenage girl. But we’re leaving, I told him. We’re going—we should burn Prescott’s house down first!” Reba’s voice breaks. “My baby, my baby—” Her words turn into sobs.
I jam my arms into a coat and pull my keys from the pocket.
“Where are you?” I ask.
She tells me and I nod, walking toward the door.
“I’ll be there soon. Sit tight.”
***
Thirty-five minutes later I’m cresting the hill near Prescott’s farm. I don’t bother to slow down as I round a sharp curve and the tires spin out. I steer into the swerve and take my foot off the gas. The worst thing you can do on ice is slam on your brakes. That’s unfortunate since it’s your first instinct.
The car corrects itself and I drive to a lower driveway, the one nearest the barn. A small, dark figure is hunched near a tree. As I approach it walks toward me.
Reba, bundled in layers, opens the passenger door. I had time to stop by the office and grab my wig, plaster a little makeup on my face but now she knows what my car looks like. I don’t care. There are bigger things to worry about.
She pauses for a moment, then looks back over her shoulder and nods. A second figure, smaller and even more hunched walks toward us.
“Get in,” I say to Reba, and she nods but waits for the second figure to draw closer. It’s Leanne, bundled and stumbling in the snow.
I can’t make out much of her face, other than that it’s pale and framed with red hair. Where Reba’s hair curls naturally and springs around her face, frizzy and wild, Leanne’s is glossy and long. She wears a knit hat, one with yarn braids that come halfway down her chest.
She doesn’t look at me. Just settles in the back seat and stares at the hands in her lap. Reba bustles into the car, rearranging herself and her layers until she can turn and look at her daughter.
“We’re going to get you out of here, baby,” Reba says.
Leanne doesn’t respond.
I pull back onto the road and follow it to the state highway. There are no other cars out. The wind whips the snow around in small tornados. I turn up the heat dial but am only rewarded with lukewarm air.
“Are either of you hungry? We could go to McDonalds,” I offer.
Reba shakes her head. “I don’t want anyone we might know to see us.”
I nod, following winding roads bordering frozen cow pastures and big farmhouses. Finally, we settle at a small café two towns away. It has grungy looking wood paneled walls and I’m hesitant to drink the coffee I ordered. I take a small sip and look at Reba and Leanne sitting across from me.
Reba stares back, her eyes red-rimmed. Leanne traces circles on the table with an index finger. A question burns my esophagus and I want to blurt it out. But part of me doesn’t want to know—can’t deal with—the answer. Still, the words come.
“Is this because of what I did? When I went to his house ...” The words come out fast and choppy and Reba is shaking her head before I even finish the question.
“He’s wanted Leanne for a long time,” Reba says. She mutters a curse word that aptly describes Prescott. “He was drunk this time, and ...” Her sentence peters away.
Leanne’s finger continues to move in a circular motion, drawing figure eights I notice. Back and forth, around and back. She doesn’t touch the mug of cocoa sitting in front of her.
“It’s not because of you,” Reba says, her eyes tearing. “But this time, I want you to really fix him. We won’
t go to the cops—not because of Doug but because she doesn’t want to,” Reba nods at her daughter. “They’d probably would side with him anyway,” she says, bitterly. “Even if they did a” her voice breaks off and she takes a big breath. “A rape kit, he’ll just say that she encouraged him, that she wanted it. So, this time you fix him good. Don’t let him get away with this. And there’s something else.”
I nod. “Anything.”
“You’ve got to take her for a little while. Just a few days. I need to get us a place to stay, find a job. There’s some cash—I’ll get it when Doug’s at work but I need a little time to get us set up somewhere new.”
Leanne makes a small sound, like the beginning of a word. Her finger stops mid-eight and I find myself holding my breath. But then she lowers her head further, takes her finger from the table and folds in on herself, thin arms encased in a purple sweater hugging her torso, head bent, red hair falling forward.
“Of course,” my mouth says at the same time my brain is asking me where, when, how and what I think I’m doing. “Of course, I’ll help.”
Chapter Twenty-four
First rule of Sunflower Specials: never let a client know your identity. This is the point behind the pay-as-you-go cell phone, the disguises that I wear when I meet with clients, and the out-of-the-way places we meet. They are walking on the edge by hiring me; I’m walking straight down the middle of the path marked, “illegal,” so I need to keep my bases covered. I could lose my business. And I really, really don’t want to go to jail.
I drop Reba off at the farm. She insists on walking from the end of the long driveway, but before she does, retrieves a bag from a nearby shed and stuffs it into the backseat with Leanne. Her voice murmurs something—prayers, condolences, reassurances—I can’t tell. Then she closes the door and waves to me and turns her back to the car.
I wait until she’s crested a small knoll to back out of the driveway. When I look over my shoulder to check for oncoming traffic, Leanne is huddled near the door, eyes downcast, holding the backpack like a life raft.
Where am I going to bring her? The thought has been ricocheting in my brain since I first agreed to help. My immediate thought is Ezra. In the state Leanne is in, though, and after what she’s experienced, I can’t see leaving her with a stranger, especially a man. Besides the fact, Father Benoir would have plenty to say about the temporary living situation.
I slow around a corner. The wind is billowing outside the window, pulling snow across the road in gauzy strips. My mother’s house? But how will I explain Leanne’s presence? Besides the fact, I can’t really tell her how I’m involved in all of this.
I follow the back roads toward home. Desperate times call for desperate measures, right? I’ll just have to hope that Leanne and her mother don’t slip up and tell someone how I’m involved in all of this.
“Are you warm enough?” I ask over my shoulder.
You could hear crickets in the silence that follows. It remains this way, me drumming my fingers on the steering wheel and occasionally clearing my throat; Leanne sitting mutely until we arrive at my trailer.
“You live here alone?” Her voice is rusty, as though she hasn’t used it in a while.
I nod, too surprised to find any words to respond.
She doesn’t say anything else, but looks over the trailer cautiously from the back seat.
I get out and walk around to her side, pull the door open. She emerges seconds later, the backpack swinging around her shoulders. It bulges and I nearly offer to heft it for her. But don’t. Babying her isn’t going to take away what happened.
I trudge through the few inches of snow to the front steps, make a mental note to come back out and clear them and the path to the driveway. Turning the thermostat up as soon as we get inside, I leave a trail of melting snow in my wake. I pull my flannel shirt off and mop it up as Leanne watches.
“You can leave your boots there,” I nod to a rubber tray near the door. I take my own advice and deposit mine too.
“Do you need some slippers?” I ask.
She shakes her head and slowly bends to unlace her thick, winter boots.
When she’s stripped off her winter stuff, she follows me into the kitchen and sits, precariously, on a bar stool.
“I’m making cocoa. Do you want some?” I ask. She shakes her head, but then nods.
“Okay.”
I turn on the radio and some peppy jazz fills the air between us. In a way it makes our silence seem that much more odd, but I notice that by the time the tea pot is screeching at me to take me off the burner right now!, Leanne has unclenched herself, just a little. I stir in the cocoa powder while looking out the window over the kitchen sink. My view of the backyard is basically trees, trees, and more trees. Winston and I cut a lot away that first summer I was here, making space and light for the garden.
Crap.
I never checked in on him. Even though he’s about thirty years my senior and a seasoned outdoorsman, I worry about him, that he will get hurt and I won’t know till weeks later.
Leanne clears her throat. “What’s your name?”
I practically jump, lost in my own thoughts so much I’d forgotten she was even in the room. And what to say? Tell her my real name and risk making matters worse? But really, at this point, can they get any worse?
“Tatum,” I say. “But everyone calls me Tayt.”
I slide one of the mugs across the counter to her.
“Careful. It’s hot.” Good grief. I sound like my mother. Of course, the girl knows that hot cocoa will be hot.
I feel a little itchy inside, as though the walls are closing in on me and I’m wearing a too-hot sweater that I can’t get off. I’m stuck with her for how long? Part of me is ashamed of myself—she’s just been victimized for pity’s sake. But the other half of me feels panic setting in. Other than Winston—who arrives unexpectedly and at odd times—I rarely get visitors. And I like it that way.
My phone rings—the landline—and I welcome the break in awkward glances and rush to grab it. Half-expecting it to be the prank caller, I smile when I hear another voice instead.
“So, I’m on my way over,” Ezra says. “I have someone I want you to meet.”
My throat is suddenly very dry.
“Is this a canine someone?” I ask. He’s talked about wanting a dog for months now, but would he risk Father Benoir’s wrath?
Ezra chuckles. “No, non-canine and very human. A female human. Don’t worry, you’ll like her.”
I look back toward the counter, see Leanne take a sip of cocoa. My cheeks are hot and my hand, I notice, as I wipe at a smudge on the wall near the phone, is shaking.
“This isn’t a good time,” I want to say. But it’s Ezra and he’s bringing a woman to meet me. I remember his words at dinner the other night ... thinking more and more about the rest of my life. Do I want to spend it alone? I’d asked him flat out if there was someone. And he’d said no. He wouldn’t lie. Not to me, his oldest friend.
Would he?
“Great,” I say. I glance back at the counter. Leanne is studying the trees outside the window. “I have company, but it’s fine. See you in a bit.”
Chapter Twenty-five
As I hang up the phone, Leanne yells “Moose!” and runs to the window. I follow her. There is indeed a bull moose walking languidly in front of the row of pine trees bordering the garden beds. He stops mid-step as though he heard her through the glass and glances toward the trailer. His breath comes in big, white clouds and evaporates immediately. His coat is scraggly and pulls free in spots, like stuffing coming out of a kid’s toy.
I’ve lived in Vermont a long time and have never seen a moose in person. Where’s my camera?
Before I can move, though, he saunters across the yard and crashes through the trees and undergrowth like a freight train in slow motion.
“Do you see those a lot around here?” Leanne asks, still watching the swaying branches where the moose disappeared into t
he forest.
“No. I’ve never seen one before.”
The quick break in the silence is past and the noiselessness resumes quickly. The radio has switched to news, and I turn it off. We have our fill of bad news already. I flick on the television just to distract us from the oppressive nothingness. Leanne finds a spot on the couch and tucks her legs under her, sipping from the mug and staring glassy eyed at the screen.
I watch her for a couple of minutes. Her face is even younger now that it’s somewhat relaxed. She’s pulled her long hair into a messy bun and her cheeks look rounder, more child-like. I imagine what it would be like if she were my little sister, just here for a visit, watching mindless TV and observing the wildlife. And then I think of Prescott’s hands on her, holding her down ....
I can’t sit still any longer. I rinse my cup and tell Leanne that I’m going outside to fix something and will be back in a couple minutes. If she hears me, I can’t tell.
Bundled in a wool coat, mittens, a hat, and fleece neck warmer, I tromp around between the shed and garden. I find a stray tomato cage and try to yank it from the ground, but it’s frozen solid. I pull the tops of some dead weeds from the ground. Mostly, I just let the weak rays of the sun, the sound of the wind breathing through the pine branches, and the smell of fresh air settle my nerves. The air is so cold in my lungs that they ache each time I inhale. I welcome the discomfort.
I think suddenly, unwantedly, about C.J. His self-satisfied face, perfectly handsome, so, well, perfect, flashes into my brain. I imagine his response to my telling him that Ezra has met someone, a woman. I imagine his fake condolences to me. “That’s too bad,” he’d say. “You and Ezra had a good run, but now it’s over. Everyone knows a woman who is friends with a man loses her status pretty fast after he’s engaged. I mean, what fiancée wants her husband-to-be hanging out with someone of the opposite sex?” Never mind that Ezra and I aren’t, weren’t ever ... like that. Something sharp scrapes against my ankle and I gasp, mostly from surprise.
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