Belinda glanced at Lindsay and said, “Yes.”
As soon as they left the office, Belinda said, “Focus and breathe, baby. Focus and breathe.”
Friday Morning, May 10, 1996
Lindsay decided it was time to go back to school. She wore her favorite pink and purple top with a matching fuzzy, purple cardigan, and her mother had French braided her long, blonde hair. She dabbed concealer over the fading bruises around her eye, and if you didn’t know, you’d never notice.
On the drive to school, Lindsay sat silent in the front seat, her lips set in a tight, grim line. Belinda tried to relieve her daughter’s tension by popping a No Doubt cassette into the player and one of Lindsay’s favorite songs, “Just a Girl,” filled the minivan. In the old life, Lindsay would have sung along, dancing in her seat. Now the music made her squirm, and she turned it off.
Belinda was surprised. “You’re turning off your favorite music? What’s up?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I like them anymore.”
That’s strange. Why all of a sudden? “Are you sure you’re ready to go back? You can wait until Monday if you want.”
“I want to get the first day over with, Mom. Then Monday will feel more like normal.”
“You’re a very wise girl.” Belinda stopped the car just past the school entrance next to the flagpole. When Lindsay didn’t ride the bus, this was their usual drop-off and pick-up zone, away from the traffic jam in front of the entrance.
Jenny was waiting there, her body language tense. Lindsay stared through the windshield, not budging.
“Sweetie, she’s your best friend, and she feels guilty. Look at her. She is absolutely miserable.”
“She should be.” Lindsay flicked a glance in Jenny’s direction. Jenny saw it and smiled tentatively, her fingers twiddling a shy hello.
“If you can forgive her,” Belinda said, “you’ll feel better, I promise.”
Jenny didn’t wait and opened the car door. “Lindsay. I am so, so, so sorry.” Her gray eyes flooded with tears and her freckled face flushed as she grabbed for Lindsay’s hand. “I promise I will never be so stupid again. You were so right. We shouldn’t have gone there. Please. You have to forgive me. I will never let you down again, I swear.”
Lindsay got out of the car and hugged her best friend. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t want to go, but instead I wimped out.”
“But I left you there. I will never forgive myself.”
“I forgive you.” Lindsay reached back into the car for her backpack. “Thanks, Mom. You’re pretty wise yourself.” She cracked a smile and Belinda saw a trace of the old Lindsay emerge.
As Belinda drove away, her heart ached fiercely and she longed for her deceased husband’s strong support. Oh, Jon, I need you so much. Please tell me what to do.
EIGHT
Wednesday, April 10
I checked my email and found two responses to my Craigslist ad. One was a local upholstery shop that needed a new logo. Acme Upholstery had been in business since the 1960’s and felt it was time for an update. Ya think? The other wanted to know if I’d be willing to pose nude for his high school photo class assignment. Yeah, right, you little perv. I called the first one and arranged a meeting later in the day at their shop.
Before logging off, I checked Facebook to see what exciting things my thirty-four friends were doing. Chelsea had announced that she was helping me start a blog. That got a few “likes” and a “can’t wait to read it.” That is not happening.
There was a “friend request” from Bert McKenna, my bio-dad, the famous “plastic surgeon to the stars.” Mom had put him through medical school by running a beauty shop in their kitchen with little me underfoot, only to be dumped once he was established. I ignored it. If it weren’t for my stepdad and Samantha’s husband, Spencer, I could be a total man-hater.
My appointment at the Acme upholstery shop wasn’t for a couple of hours, so I made my favorite sandwich for lunch. I had seen a variation of it on the Oprah show several years ago. Her BFF Gayle had been traveling around the country looking for the best sandwiches in America. She’d swooned when she bit into this one, created by Café Muse in Royal Oak, Michigan.
It is a fancy grilled cheese sandwich. The original calls for havarti, mozzarella, and fontina cheeses, but I make do with just havarti. The other ingredients are fresh basil, sliced tomato, and here is the kicker—honey drizzled over the basil and tomato and a sprinkle of sea salt. I always use a cast iron skillet that has been in the family for over one hundred years and was passed down to me as a wedding gift from Ruby.
While my lunch sizzled, I touched up my makeup and pulled my shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. I read somewhere that ponytails are never out of style. Thank goodness, or I’d never be in style.
The sandwich was so good that I made another half. I am five-nine with a fast metabolism, but Ruby keeps warning me that it won’t always be this way. You just wait. Those damn peri-menopausal years will get ya. Your mother was just like you and look at her now. Mom is five inches shorter than me and looks terrific, but she has been battling a little pot belly and some back-fat for the last couple years and is always saying, Where did that come from? So I guess I am doomed.
ACME Upholstery is located in an old brick building in a mixed-use area of town. I found a parking spot about a block away and dug through my purse for stray quarters to feed the meter. I’d be adding seventy-five cents to my bill.
I entered the dusty, cavernous shop carrying my large portfolio and was greeted by the scariest cat I’ve ever seen. It jumped onto the worn laminate counter and leaned towards me, drooling and making menacing gurgling sounds. It had sparse patches of gray fur, random snaggle teeth, a bitten off ear tip, three or four long, screwy whiskers, and was skin and bones. I figured this must be some horrible disease like leprosy that I didn’t want to catch, so I backed away.
“Oh, now, don’t let Doris frighten you,” said an unseen female with a Midwestern twang.
A plump, middle-aged platinum blonde wearing designer jeans and a rhinestone studded top entered the area from the back office and came to the counter.
“She’s a love, aren’t you, sweetie?” She scratched Doris’s head, and the cat leaned into her making that weird sound. Maybe it was a purr. “She loves everyone. Go ahead and pet her.”
The thought of touching that mangy mess gave me the heebie-jeebies, but I had to be polite, so I tentatively reached out to her and she hissed and bit me.
“Bad, naughty girl.” The woman put Doris on the floor behind the counter. “Sorry about that. I’ve never seen her do that before, but she is getting old.”
“How old is she?” I rubbed my hand where she’d bit me, or more like gummed me.
“She’s twenty-nine, which in human years is about a hundred and thirty-three. She doesn’t look so good now, but she’s still going strong. Still a great mouser.”
I was dumbfounded. Who knew that eating mice was the key to a long, healthy but not so pretty, life? “Wow. I’m impressed. By the way, I’m Katy McKenna.” I held out my hand and we shook.
“Nice to meet you, Katy. I’m Wanda. Did you want to get something reupholstered?”
“Actually, I’m here to talk about your logo. We had an appointment?” I placed my portfolio on the counter.
“Oh, right.” She laughed. “Don’t mind me. I was doing the books, and sometimes it’s hard to switch gears. You’re ‘Craigslist Katy.’ That’s what I’ve been calling you. I’ve never used Craigslist before, and my son-in-law told me to be careful.” She whispered out of the side of her mouth, “Lot of wackos, don’t ya know.” Then she laughed, “But you look okay.” Then she narrowed her eyes. “And yet, you’re the first person Doris has ever bit. Mmmm.”
“My dad was a cop,” I blurted.
“I’m just kiddin’ ya.” She pointed at my red portfolio. “What’cha got there?”
I opened the case, revealing eighteen by twenty-four inch pages wi
th examples of past projects encased in plastic sleeves. Most of my work is several years old now due to the “Bookcase Bistro” years, but I have to admit, it’s still pretty impressive.
Wanda worked her way through the pages, making the appropriate appreciative sounds, ending with, “Wow. You’re good. You know, I can’t pay much.” She snapped her fingers. “Tell you what. You can have one of Doris’s kittens.”
Kittens? I assumed she was kidding and gave a “yeah-right” laugh, and asked her if she had any idea of the logo style she wanted.
“Oh, my goodness, no. You’re the expert, and I’m sure I’ll love anything you do.”
I inwardly groaned. It makes the job so much easier if I have a clue what the client likes. “All right. I’ll work up a few design ideas, and we can meet again in a few days.”
“Call first, because I’m in and out all the time.” She hoisted up a gargantuan, genuine Prada handbag from under the counter and extracted a calling card from a Louis Vuitton wallet. “If I don’t answer here at the shop, here’s my cell number. Just try to keep the cost down, okay? The economy is killing us.”
I left minus an elderly kitten, although I had to admit the one named Dave was pretty darn cute and still had most of his hair. On my way home, I swung by Samantha’s house to see if Chelsea was home. I figured I might as well get the blog debacle over with so she wouldn’t drive me crazy about it.
Samantha answered the door dressed in yellow bumblebee-print scrubs and looking like she’d given birth to quadruplets during her ten-hour nursing shift in the hospital maternity ward. “You’re just in time for a caffeine fix,” she said as I walked in.
“Forget about the coffee. You should go to bed. You look pooped.”
“No can do,” she said over her shoulder as we walked to the kitchen. “There’s a PTA meeting tonight, and Spencer’s in New York on a layover.”
I sat on a barstool at the granite counter. “Is that man ever home?”
“The airlines have laid off so many pilots, we’re lucky he’s still working, but I sure could use his help around here. Especially on long days like this.”
She poured our coffees and split a warm cinnamon roll between two plates. “I’m off tomorrow, so I’ll catch up. Are you here to blog, my dear?”
“Yes.” I sighed like a put-upon drama queen.
“Chelsea!” Sam yelled. “Aunt Katy’s here.”
No response.
“Come on.” She picked up my plate and started down the hallway with me in tow. Outside Chelsea’s door, she said, “She’s probably on the phone.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“You are so 2005.” Sam knocked on the door. “Nobody actually talks now days. ”
“This generation is going to be a bunch of arthritic-fingered inarticulates by the time they’re our age. God, I feel old.”
“We’re not old, but I do think Chelsea’s missing out on a lot of fun.” Sam lowered her voice to a whisper. “Spencer and I are working out a plan to limit her tech time. You know—texting, tweeting, Instagram, Facebook, whatever. We’re going to talk to all her friend’s parents and try to get them on board, so we’re not the only bad guys.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Come in!” called Chelsea.
As I opened the door, I whispered, “Hey, maybe we could throw an old-fashioned slumber party for her.”
“Good idea!”
Chelsea’s room could have been my room as a teenager, except for all the pink. I was more of a purple and green girl. But it was a mess like mine had been, and there were teen heartthrob posters on the walls. I don’t get the “Bieber” thing at all, and don’t think I would have even as a teenager. I pointed to a new poster since my last visit. “Who’s that?”
Chelsea tossed back her pink-streaked, straight blonde hair and clutched her hands to her chest. “Oh, my God. That’s Robert Pattinson.”
I was clueless. “Is he a singer?”
“Aunt Katy, you definitely need to get out more. He’s in the Twilight movies. He’s Edward.” Just saying his name made Chelsea look like she was going to pass out.
“He’s cute if you’re into the dead look,” I said. “We were crazy about Jason Priestley when we were your age.” I inwardly winced at those last few words. Am I really so old that I’m already saying stuff like that? This little visit to Chelsea’s room had really accelerated my aging process.
“Who’s that?” asked my extremely young friend.
“Beverly Hills, 90210,” Sam said. “He was soooo cute.”
Chelsea stared at us like we’d landed from another planet. Very deflating.
“I guess I’ll leave you two alone.” Samantha backed out of the room into the hall. “Have fun.”
I plopped next to Chelsea on her flouncy daybed under a swag of fuchsia netting. She opened her pink laptop and logged into the site. She had set up a free WordPress blog, decorated with pink flowers and butterflies, which I agreed was absolutely adorable but so not me. After an intense, twenty minute lesson on blogging, she placed the computer on my lap. “Okay, Aunt Katy. It’s all set up and ready to go. Time to make your first official entry so I can be sure you know how.”
The pressure was on. I took a deep breath and cracked my knuckles. This would have to be good. Meaningful. Life changing. Spiritual. Deep. And above all, impress my young friend. I started typing and suddenly the words flowed like honey.
Hello World
By Katy McKenna on Wednesday, April 10
I hate Lima beans. Always have, always will.
Chelsea gazed at me like we were kindred spirits. “Wow. Me, too.”
When I got home, I piled a plate with munchies, poured a glass of wine and settled into my favorite chair to do some blogging. I figured I might as well give it a try since Chelsea had taken the trouble to set it up.
I easily accessed my site, then sat and stared at it. Hmmm. What to write? Already talked about the lima beans, and I pretty much like all other beans, except fava beans, but that might be due to the movie, The Silence of the Lambs. Come to think of it, I’m not fond of Chianti, either.
Hello World. It’s Me Again
By Katy McKenna on Wednesday, April 10
This is my first official all-by-myself blog entry!
The laptop screen glared at me. Now what? I caught sight of myself in the wall mirror across the room. My hair was half out of its ponytail and was a frazzled mess. Inspiration!
I hate my hair.
Then I sat and waited for the next revelation. And it came.
I hate boys.
I read my two sentences. Then I wrote:
I seriously need to get a life.
I stared at the screen and my mind drifted to Lindsay, and I knew what to write.
Daisy was poking her nose into my thigh and whining, “Bedtime.”
I’d been blogging for hours and had lost track of time. Once I’d begun writing my thoughts about Lindsay and what my role should be, it made sense to write everything I knew up to that point. My case notes.
Turned out I knew more than I realized, and the more I wrote, the more questions I had. Like, who was Phil Hobart? Yes, he was a murderer, kidnapper, and rapist. But was that it? He’d started life as an innocent baby, so what had happened?
NINE
1996
Phil Hobart had been a scrawny, sickly kid. The damp Portland, Oregon weather where he had lived with his family had aggravated his chronic asthma, so in 1989, his father, Adam, had accepted a job with an accounting firm in Santa Lucia and they had moved to sunny California.
The mild central coast climate had improved the boy’s health and he blossomed into a healthy young man. Although aggressive sports like soccer or basketball still triggered an asthma attack, he participated in the ASB, debate, varsity golf, and earned an Eagle Scout badge in his junior year. At 5’11”, brunette with hazel eyes, the girls swooned over him, not just for his good looks but because he was a genuinely nice guy. All
four years he was in advanced placement classes and honor society, and he graduated in the top twenty of Santa Lucia High School’s class of 1994.
Phil was now in his sophomore year at University at Santa Lucia, studying to be a high school history teacher much to the disappointment of his father, who’d wanted him to attend an Ivy League law school and become a hot-shot lawyer. His mother was proud and supportive, telling Phil he had to follow his own dreams not his father’s. To pacify his father, he’d joined his father’s old fraternity, Alpha Gamma.
Phil lived in the frat house in a large room on the second floor with his two roommates, Jake Werner and Erik Mason. Jake was a farm boy from Wisconsin, studying for a dairy science degree on a full-ride wrestling scholarship, and Erik, a rich kid from Greenwich, Connecticut, was majoring in partying, with a minor in chasing skirts.
Phil’s mother, Penny, worked as a police dispatcher for the Santa Lucia Police Department, and his sixteen-year-old sister was a junior at Santa Lucia High School, who spent most of her time holed up in her room writing miserable poetry about how miserable she was.
His folks were members of the local country club, and every Sunday, Phil would meet his father for breakfast and eighteen holes. Phil had a +1 handicap to Adam’s 14, so the links were the one place where his dad praised him.
Recently his mother had been talking about getting an RV and in the coming summer, visiting a few national parks. Adam was reluctant, his sister thought it was a miserable idea, and Phil felt he should be working a summer job to save money. But he also knew it would most likely be his last family vacation, so maybe that was more important.
Then Friday night happened and Phil’s life changed forever.
Friday, May 3, 1996
Another Friday night mixer was underway at Phil’s fraternity house. Although the night was young, most of the one hundred plus crammed into the ground floor of the decrepit old Victorian were already drunk, thanks to several kegs of cheap beer and a refrigerator full of gelatin shots.
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