Chose the Wrong Guy, Gave Him the Wrong Finger

by Beth Harbison

  When Frank showed up after dinner, Quinn felt even more at ease. She and Frank had really gotten to be friends, apart from her relationship with Burke. Sometimes he’d even call her himself, just to check and see how she was doing. Not because she was his brother’s girlfriend but because he genuinely liked her.

  He’d even told her that.

  “I like you, Quinn. Apart from the whole Burke thing, I like you.”

  “Thanks! I like you too,” she’d said.

  He’d looked surprised, so she added, “No, I really do.”

  There was a long moment when he had looked at her, scrutinized her wordlessly. Then his gaze shifted and he had moved away, as if he had assessed something, and moved on to another task, and she was forgotten.

  As twilight fell, they all sat on the front porch and Burke’s grandfather told a ghost story while Quinn listened with rapt attention. When he had her completely engaged, he ended his story with a stomp of his foot at the punch line and both Quinn and the dog jumped. Both Frank and Burke laughed.

  “Burke and I both fell for that one when we were kids,” Frank said. “I think Burke fell for it more than once.”

  “Probably,” Burke agreed.

  “Burke, why don’t you take Quinn for a walk in the field while we clean up?” Dottie suggested. “Show her the lay of the land.”

  “No, let me help clean up,” Quinn protested.

  “Absolutely not, missy. You’re our guest. Frank will help out, won’t you, Frank?”

  “Sure,” he said, though Quinn noticed his gaze darted away from her when she looked at him. Was he irritated that he had to clean up after her?

  Burke slipped his hand into Quinn’s and said, “Come on, guest.” They took the dog with them and walked through the cut grass holding hands.

  “I want to live here,” Quinn told him.

  “Wouldn’t you miss your suburbia?”

  “No way. I could honestly live here. I’d learn to hunt and race and”—she shrugged—“whatever else you do with the horses.”

  “Breed.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “And you want to show me how to do that, right?”

  He laughed outright.

  “What’s with Frank?” she asked then.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He seemed so pissy when we left.”

  Burke frowned. “Did he? More than usual?”

  She laughed. “Frank isn’t usually pissy!”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No … are you?” Frank was one of the nicest guys in school. It was really touching how he had always been solicitous of her.

  Burke shook his head. “We must not be talking about the same Frank.”

  “Oh, stop it. Come on, he’s a great guy.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t get why you two don’t get along better.”

  “This,” he said, gesturing at the land, “is Civil War country. Maybe we just have a blue-gray thing going on between us.”

  “Which one are you?”

  “Frank’s got no shades of gray, believe me.”

  She had to laugh. “Clever.”

  They got to a line of trees and Quinn glanced back at the farmhouse. Frank and his grandparents were carrying things into the house and she could barely see them for the dusk.

  “Come with me,” she said, and took Burke by the hand to the other side of a wide tree.

  This was the kind of thing he loved. He gave her a rakish smile. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing. Just thought you might find something to do with some privacy.”

  Once hidden, she backed against the tree and he braced his hands on either side of her and leaned in to kiss her.

  She slid her arms over his shoulders and drew him closer to her, deepening the kiss until they were pressed together so tightly that it would have been impossible to slide a sheet of paper between them.

  The dog foraged around in the brush, occasionally taking off at a run, then trotting back.

  She didn’t know how long they stayed there, making out in the darkening night, but by the time they came up for air it was dark out.

  Which Burke pointed out was a good thing. No prying eyes upon them from afar.

  They took their time walking back to the house. The windows glowed yellow from the lights burning inside. To Quinn it felt like being in a children’s book illustration, everything was just so perfect.

  She was shown to her room upstairs—a small rectangle next to Burke’s larger room. Both were furnished with antiques in such perfect condition that Quinn was afraid to touch them for fear of accidentally nicking something.

  Quinn brushed her teeth and put on her nightgown and headed back to her room while Burke went into the bathroom.

  Frank came out of his room at that moment and almost ran into her in the hall. “Oh, sorry,” he said awkwardly, but he didn’t move.

  Quinn took a step back and around him. “That’s okay. Good night, Frank. See you in the morning.”

  “Wait.”

  She stopped.

  “Do you— do you need anything?” he asked.

  See? Nice guy. She didn’t know what Burke was talking about. He was probably just jealous of her saying something nice about another guy. Especially his brother. There always was a certain sense of competition between the two of them.

  “No, I’m good,” she said to him. “But thanks.” She went on into her room and closed the door behind her.

  It was very quiet. Old houses tend to have that weird quality of shutting out the whole world, and this one was no exception.

  Quinn climbed between the cool clean sheets and reached over to turn the light out.

  Pitch-black.

  Suddenly she felt very alone.

  Even though it had been a joke, designed to lead up to the startling end, Quinn started thinking about the ghost story Burke’s grandfather had told and wondered if there was any truth to it. It was all too easy to imagine the restless spirits of Confederate soldiers milling around outside, especially now that she was alone in the guest room.

  Quinn got out of bed and looked out the window. She could swear that she could see filmy movements below, like faded sheets blowing in the wind.

  Her heart quickened and she went to the shared wall between the two bedrooms and tapped on it.

  Almost immediately he tapped back.

  She knocked again, frantically, her own Morse code for, Get in here quick!

  Her door creaked open a moment later. “What’s wrong?” Burke looked concerned.

  “I think it’s haunted here.”

  His shoulders relaxed and his expression eased. “It’s not. That was just a joke.”

  “I know, but look outside!” she whispered. “I think there are … things out there. Seriously, look.”

  He shook his head and went to the open window. “What am I looking for?”

  She joined him, her breath mingling with his. The wind blew the fabric of her thin homemade nightgown. “There!” She pointed to a place in the distant woods where she thought she saw a billowy white form. “Did you see that?”

  He laughed outright. “No.”

  “Look closely.”

  He did. He looked like he really tried. But then he looked back at her like she was crazy. “That’s just the wind moving the leaves.”

  “Yeah, and ghosts.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She frowned. How could he not see what she was seeing? “You’re just not sensitive.”

  “Hm.” He looked out again. “You think?”

  She nodded. “I’m scared.”

  He looked to the door, considered, then looked back at her. “You’re being a dumbass.”

  “I am not!”

  “Shhh. Quiet. They’ll hear. Just lie down and go to sleep. Stop being a baby.”

  “Fine.” She went back to the bed and pulled back the crocheted bedspread, then climbed between the sheets again.

  “Go
od girl.” He laughed, then sat down on the edge of the bed with a creak.

  She turned to face him. “You’re a jerk,” she said, reaching for his hand and twining her fingers with his.

  “Why are you always surprised by that?” He rested his other hand heavily on her hip, the solid weight lending comfort and warmth.

  Suddenly she was tired. The steak, the fresh air, the sugar low after eating the snowball that afternoon and about a dozen chocolate chip cookies after dinner all got to her at once, and she could barely keep her eyes open.

  “You should be nicer,” she said, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent of clean sheets and old house.

  “I try.”

  The wind lifted outside and whispered across her hair. “Try harder.”

  They fell into silence then, and he left the room without a word.

  Finally, the ghosts forgotten in the face of sheer exhaustion, she drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 9

  Present

  Dottie called that afternoon and wanted me to come right away, urgent urgent urgent, as she was most concerned about making sure I had everything I needed to make sure her dress was as perfect as she knew only I could make it, and now she was worried that she’d fouled everything up by getting hurt so that she couldn’t come in for her fittings, so even though she knew it was more trouble than I had planned on having to go to, would I mind…?

  “When I saw him this morning, I told Frank to tell you not to worry,” I said, certain he had given her that reassurance.

  “Well, that’s just very easy for a man to say, isn’t it?” she returned. And, honestly, she did have a point. “I couldn’t believe him, I needed to hear it from you!”

  “Well, now you are worried,” I said, trying to calm her. “No need. We’ll get it done.”

  “So you’ll come?”

  A tremor of apprehension skittered across my chest but I tried to ignore it. Always bad policy, by the way. “Yes, I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

  “And plan to stay for supper,” she added. “I’m having some folks over. Just casual, of course. Nice beginning-of-summer party.”

  I knew she loved those. “That’s really nice, Dottie, but I don’t want to interrupt your party. I can take the measurements very quickly and get out of your way.”

  “Out of my way, are you kidding, child? We could use a little infusion of your bubbly energy in the mix!”

  It was clear I wasn’t going to be able to get out of this gracefully, so even though I would rather have gone home and started cutting the material and watching Bravo, I asked, “Is there anything I can bring, then?”

  “Just your sweet self, Quinn.”

  I had to laugh. “Okay, but at least let me contribute something to the feast.” I’d been to her Golden Cup beginning-of-summer parties and they were always huge festivals of cookout foods. Of course, those events were usually catered, as there were hundreds of guests, but I knew what summer meant to Dottie. It was sun, and fun, and picnic tables, and beer.

  So I’d bring my mom’s “famous” macaroni salad. Everyone who ever had it liked it, and it was generic enough to go with hot dogs, hamburgers, bratwurst, whatever.

  Macaroni salad is always appropriate, right?

  “Honey, you can do whatever you like, but you just get yourself on over here, I can’t wait to get started!”

  So with that invitation, I ran home, threw some elbow noodles into a pot of boiling salted water, and mixed up the mayo, sour cream, dry mustard, tomatoes, and several other ingredients typical of any sixties back-of-the-box recipe, and let it chill while I took a quick shower.

  I figured Frank would be there, as I’d only run into him a few hours earlier, but I didn’t have time to get dolled up for him, nor the inclination, given that he’d seen me looking pretty rough at the grocery store. Besides, it was going to take me at least forty minutes to drive there and I wanted to make my appearance, get the measurements, and go, so I just threw on a sundress, brushed my wet hair into a part, and ran, carrying my flip-flops in hand.

  I drove down U.S. 15 with more than a little trepidation. I had certainly been on this road a few times in the past ten years, but not very many. And, for reasons I couldn’t quite articulate, every vista along the way—none of which had changed much, by the way—was etched in my mind as belonging to him. And to that time.

  Which I guess explains why I hadn’t made this drive much. I didn’t have much call to head south, for one thing, but the temptation had certainly struck, more than once, to take a melancholy trip into the past. Sometimes it was a sunny fall day when the mood struck me; other times it was a muggy, rainy, gray summer day. Always it was a trick of the mind to travel back in time and invariably end up feeling weird and sad.

  Because, like I said, I had really seen myself ending up there someday. The crazy fact that it looked like my childhood play set just seemed like fate to teenage me.

  Thirty-one-year-old me wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

  Anyway, perhaps if I had business outside of town and this drive had, for any reason, become a regular thing for me, I might have gotten used to it and grown to associate the landmarks along the way with other things. Ordinary things. A hair appointment, a cranky bride, taking my car in for detailing, or driving to a mall or favorite Thai restaurant.

  But none of that stuff was down this way. The only thing here was a long gray ribbon of road, stretched like tape stuck by a toddler onto a rolling carpet of green hills under a huge arch of blue sky. This is Virginia. My Virginia, anyway.

  The landscape narrowed some as I went through The Plains and into Fauquier County, and the tight little band of roads that led to the farm. I had to stop and take a breath before turning onto the old familiar dirt road.

  It looked exactly the same. I guess that’s not entirely surprising. There were only two houses on the road and the owners of each were older now, had been there forever, and wouldn’t be very motivated to pay whatever it would cost to pave a mile of dirt. The oak trees that flanked the road had been there for so long that a mere ten years wouldn’t have made an appreciable difference, so the entire effect was as if time had stood still in this few square miles.

  And, in a way, I guess it had. Dottie hadn’t been motivated to change anything. She’d said a million times, “You know how I am: old dog, no new tricks.” Which was one of the reasons it was so astonishing that she was getting married.

  That was a new trick.

  Anyway, it was with great apprehension that I drove past the now-abandoned bakery and turned down the bumpy dirt road to the farm. I felt a sense of fear straight down through my core, and I couldn’t really say why. There was nothing to be afraid of except my own mind—the places my memory would take me upon seeing the place again, and the way I’d feel when it did—but this wasn’t time travel and I knew it. This was today, not ten years ago, and I was going to see Dottie, whom I’d seen hundreds of times in the ensuing years, and a group of her older friends, many of whom I’d probably recognize from town.

  I parked the car and grabbed my purse and Tupperware and went to the door of the main house. I’d spent more time in the tenant house, of course, Burke and I stealing away in there and doing all kinds of unholy things by candlelight, but the main house, I knew, would remind me of what I had always anticipated my life would become. Dignified. Dark polished woods, antiques, elegance … always with the tenant house right there to sneak off to for fun.

  The paddocks, which used to be full of horses, were now empty, save for one closest to the house. There was an old chestnut gelding I recognized immediately as Rogue. His coat was shaggy from the end of winter and lack of grooming, but I would have recognized the star on his forehead and the three white socks anywhere.

  There was something both touching and reassuring about seeing him there, but I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to him when the farm was sold. Someone was almost certainly lined up to take him. Most of the people who ca
me here and would be familiar with him had farms of their own.

  I made my way up to the large stone main house.

  Dottie opened the door before I touched the bell. She was leaning on a crutch, her ankle wrapped but visibly swollen. “There you are!” She beamed. “I’m so happy you’ve come!”

  “Thanks for inviting me,” I said, and looked around. The place seemed empty. Apparently no one was here yet, which meant my escape plan would be put off indefinitely.

  “What have you got there?” she asked, indicating the Tupperware. It was an old piece, very early eighties, kind of a strange turquoise green that seemed to get brighter with the years, rather than the opposite. “Isn’t that a pretty container!”

  “Oh. I just made some macaroni salad.” Just standing there on the threshold to such austere elegance, to me the plastic felt impossibly cheap and lowbrow. “I’m not sure it goes with what you had in mind so maybe I should just—”

  “Nonsense, macaroni goes with everything.” She took the bowl from me with her free hand and said, “Let me take this into the kitchen and you go on into the parlor and wait for Frank and Burke.”

  I stopped literally midstep. As in, foot in the air, and for a moment I really and truly had to fight the impulse to turn on my heel and run. Ask no questions, just get the hell out of there.

  Because Burke was there. This wasn’t some outdoor picnicky cookout with the old folks from town, this was a setup. She wanted whatever was wrong with Burke, Frank, and me to be right. Maybe it was part of the housekeeping involved in selling the whole place, marrying someone new, and moving away. I didn’t know her well enough to be sure what her motives were, or could be, but I knew her well enough to know she had something in mind and she’d had it there ever since watching me react to the news of Burke coming back to clear out the farm.

  I didn’t know what to do. Just straight up didn’t know what to do. I wanted desperately to not be there. To be almost anywhere but there. In line at the department of motor vehicles. At the gym. Standing in the sweltering heat of August at an amusement park with no water. I was panicked to leave but too polite to do anything but stay.