True Confessions

by Rachel Gibson

  Giving herself manicures was only one of the many time-wasting contrivances she performed to avoid the reality of an empty screen.

  One of the many time-consuming tricks she used to avoid the reality of her life. The painful reality that she had no one. No one to talk to when the nights got lonely. No one to hold her hand and tell her she was okay.

  Her mother had died in the fall, and her father had remarried by spring. He’d moved to Sun City, Arizona, with his new wife to be near her family. He called. Hope called. It wasn’t the same. Her only sibling, Evan, was stationed in Germany. She wrote. He wrote. That wasn’t the same, either.

  She’d had a husband once. For seven years she’d lived a beautiful life in a beautiful house in Brentwood, gone to lavish parties, and played a mean game of tennis. Her husband, Blaine, had been a brilliant plastic surgeon, handsome and funny, and she’d loved him desperately. She’d been secure and happy, and the last night they’d spent together, he’d made love to her as if she were the wife of his heart.

  The next day, he’d had her served with divorce papers. He’d told her he was awfully sorry, but he’d fallen in love with her best friend, Jill Ellis. The two hadn’t wanted to hurt Hope, but what could they do? They were in love, and, of course, Jill was five months pregnant, giving him the one thing Hope could not.

  Hope no longer had a husband; had no friends, no children.

  She had her career, though, and while that wasn’t how she’d necessarily envisioned her life, it hadn’t been so bad. At least until she’d hit the wall blocking her.

  For three years she’d turned her back on her past, refusing to acknowledge the depth of her pain even to herself. She’d ignored the ruins of her life and buried herself in her work. First as a freelance writer for magazines such as Woman’s World and Cosmopolitan, and she’d also done some freelance reporting for the Star and The National Enquirer. She’d done that for a year, but she hadn’t really enjoyed sneaking around prying into the lives of celebrities, and besides, she’d done it for the wrong reasons anyway.

  She’d quit gossip completely to take a job as a staff writer for The Weekly News of the Universe, one of those black-and-white tabloids that claimed Elvis was alive and well and living on Mars. No more rumor or scandal. Now she made up fictional stories. Under the pen name Madilyn Wright, she was the most popular writer at the paper, and she loved it.

  That is, until two months ago, when it seemed she’d hit an invisible wall. She couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t go through it, and couldn’t see to go around it. She was stuck. She couldn’t seem to hide from it or get lost in the bizarre stories she made up in her head. She hadn’t been able to write a decent sentence for a while now. Hope figured a psychiatrist could tell her what was wrong with her, but she also figured she already knew.

  Her editor had become extremely anxious and had suggested Hope take a break. Not because he was a hell of a guy, but because she made him look good. She also made the paper a lot of money, and they wanted their most popular reporter back, churning out the strange and unusual.

  Walter had even gone so far as to choose her vacation destiny, and the paper had paid the six months’ lease on the house. Walter told her he’d picked Gospel, Idaho, because of the fresh air. That was what he’d said, but he hadn’t been fooling anyone. He’d picked Gospel because it looked like the sort of place where Bigfoot hung out. Where people were routinely abducted by aliens, and where weird cults danced naked beneath a full moon.

  Hope sat up on the edge of the bed and sighed. She’d agreed to Walter’s plan because she recognized that her life had become stagnant, a rut she no longer enjoyed living in. She needed a new routine. She’d needed to get out of L.A. for a while. Take a break and, of course, put the entire Micky the Magical Leprechaun fiasco behind her. She needed to clear her head of that whole trial.

  Without much enthusiasm, she rose, changed into a pair of flannel shorts and a Planet Hollywood T-shirt, then returned to her seat in front of the laptop. With her fingers poised above the keyboard, she stared at the blinking cursor. Silence surrounded her, heavy and complete, and before she knew it, she’d lowered her gaze to the ugly sculpted carpet beneath her feet. It was without a doubt the grossest carpet she’d ever seen, and she spent fifteen minutes trying to determine if the colors were supposed to run like that, or if a previous guest had dropped some pizza.

  Just when she concluded that the carpeting was supposed to look splotched with deep red, she caught herself procrastinating and forced her attention back to the screen.

  She stared like a hypnotized cobra, counting each blink of the cursor. She counted two hundred and forty-seven flashes when a shriek split the still night and propelled Hope to her feet.

  “For the love of God,” she gasped, her heart lodging in her throat. Then she realized it was her Viper alarm and dug into the bottom of her purse for the transmitter hooked to her key ring. She shoved her feet into her sandals, then ran outside and wove her way through the small parking lot filled with pickups, minivans, and dusty SUVs with kayaks strapped to the tops.

  The manager of the Sandman stood by the hood of Hope’s Porsche. The sponge rollers were still in her hair, and a deep scowl narrowed her eyes as she watched Hope approach. Fellow guests looked out their windows or stood in the doorways of their rooms. Dusk had settled over Gospel, painting deep shadows across the rugged landscape. The town appeared laid-back and relaxed, except for the six tones of the Viper piercing the calm. Hope pointed the transmitter at her car and disengaged the alarm.

  “Did you see anyone trying to break into my car?” she asked as she came to stand in front of Ada Dover.

  “I didn’t see anything.” Ada placed her hands on her hips and tipped her head back to look up at Hope. “But I about choked on a chicken bone when that thing went off.”

  “Someone probably touched the door handle or the windows.”

  “I thought it was the alarm going off down at the M and S Market, so I called Stanley and told him someone was breakin‘ into his store and to get down there huckuty buck.”

  “Oh, great,” Hope groaned.

  “But he says he doesn’t have an alarm. Just the signs and such so people think he does.”

  Hope didn’t know Stanley, but she doubted his lack of security was something he wanted spread around town.

  “I was just about to call the sheriff’s Dispatch,” Ada continued, “but decided to find out where all the racket was coming from first.”

  The last thing Hope needed was to have the sheriff dragged to the Sandman, not after she’d assured him he wouldn’t even know she was in town. “But you didn’t call, right?” In L.A., no one called the police for a car alarm. On any given day, chances were good one was going off in a parking lot somewhere. Chances were just as good the police were driving by and not even bothering to stop. Didn’t these people know anything?

  “No, and I’m glad I didn’t. I’d have felt real stupid. As it is, I just about died on that chicken bone.”

  Hope stared at the shorter woman in front of her; night was rapidly falling and she couldn’t see much more than the outline of rollers on her head. The cool air raised the hairs on Hope’s arms, and she knew she should feel a little bit bad that her Viper had caused Ada Dover to choke, but honestly, what kind of idiot chewed on a chicken bone? “I’m sorry you almost died,” she said, even though she sincerely doubted the woman had been close to death. She glanced over her shoulder and was relieved to find that the motel guests had gone back inside and had shut their curtains.

  “That thing isn’t going to go off again, is it?”

  “No,” Hope answered and returned her attention to the motel manager.

  “Good, ‘cause I can’t have that thing screeching and waking up the other guests all night. These people pay good money for a quiet night’s rest, and we just can’t have that sort of ruckus.”

  “I promise it won’t go off,” Hope said, her thumb itching to engage the Viper. She turned to leav
e, with Ada Dover’s parting shot trailing after her:

  “If it does, you’ll have to leave, huckuty buck.”

  The woman had Hope over a barrel and she knew it. She would have loved to tell her to kiss her huckuty buck, whatever the hell that meant, but there was only one other hotel in town and Hope was sure it was as full as the Sandman. So she kept her mouth shut as she walked to her room and shut the door behind her. She tossed her keys into her purse and returned to her seat in front of her laptop.

  Entwining her fingers on top of her head, she scooted down in her chair. The night before, she’d stayed at the Doubletree in Salt Lake City. She clearly remembered waking that morning in the nice, normal hotel, but at some point she must have driven into the twilight zone where women ate chicken bones.

  A slow smile curved her mouth, her hands dropped to the keyboard, and she wrote:

  INSANE WOMAN CHOKES TO DEATH

  ON CHICKEN BONE

  During a ritualistic ceremony, bizarre chicken worshiper Dodie Adams…

  The next morning, Hope rose early, took a quick shower, and dressed in jeans and a black tank top.

  While her hair dried, she pulled on her boots, then plugged the telephone line into the side of her laptop and fired off her chicken bone story. It wasn’t Bigfoot, but it was good enough to print in next week’s edition. Most important, she was writing again. That she had Ada Dover to thank didn’t escape her, and the irony made her smile.

  After she pulled her hair back in a ponytail, she drove three blocks to the M & S Market. She’d slept a total of four hours but felt better than she had in a long time. She was working again, and it felt good. She didn’t even want to contemplate the possibility that it might have been a fluke, and tonight she might again face hours of a blank computer screen.

  The first thing she noticed when she entered the M & S was the antlers behind the front counter. They were huge and mounted on a lacquered plaque. The second thing was the mingling scent of raw meat and cardboard. From somewhere in the back, she heard a radio tuned to a country station and the heavy whacks of what sounded like a cleaver hitting a butcher’s block. Other than herself and the unseen person in back, the store appeared empty.

  Hope found a blue plastic basket next to the cash register and hung it from her arm. She made a quick scan of the newspaper-and-magazine rack. The National Enquirer, the Globe, and Hope’s biggest competition, the Weekly World News, were all stuck beside The Weekly News of the Universe. She would have no byline this issue, but her chicken bone story would appear next week. Before leaving the hotel, she’d received an e-mail from her editor, and he was rushing to put it into production.

  The hardwood floor creaked beneath her feet as she made her way through the cereal and crackers aisles toward the refrigeration section.

  She opened the door to the glass case and placed a pint of low-fat milk in her basket. Next, she read the sugar content on the back of an orange juice bottle. It contained more corn syrup than actual fruit juice, and she put it back. She reached for a bottle of grape-kiwi, decided at the last moment she wasn’t in the mood, and grabbed cran-apple instead.

  “I’d have gone with the grape-kiwi,” drawled a now familiar voice from behind her.

  Startled, Hope turned and the glass door slammed. Her basket swung and bumped her hip.

  “Of course, grape-kiwi might be a bit wild for this time of morning,” the sheriff said. He wasn’t wearing his black Stetson today. He’d replaced it with a battered straw cowboy hat that had a band made of snakeskin. A shadow from the brim fell across his face. “You’re up pretty early.”

  “I’ve got a lot to do today, Sheriff Taber.”

  He opened the glass door and forced her to take a few steps back. “Dylan,” he said as he grabbed two pint-size cartons of chocolate milk and shoved them beneath one arm. He looked very little like the lawman of the previous day. His blue T-shirt was old and slightly wrinkled and tucked into a pair of Levi’s so faded that only the seams gave a hint of the original color.

  The glass door fogged except where it pressed against the back of his broad shoulders and his behind. His back pocket was torn and an edge of his wallet poked out. He bent and picked up what looked like two small Styrofoam containers of ice cream. “Did you find someone to help you today?” he asked as he straightened.

  “Not yet. I thought I’d call my neighbors like you suggested, but I wanted to wait in case they are still in bed.”

  “They’re up.” He moved aside and the glass door closed behind him. “Here.” With his free hand, he held out a bottle of passion fruit. “This is my favorite.”

  She reached for it, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he stepped closer until he stood just a few inches from her. “Do you like passion fruit, Ms. Spencer?”

  Her finger brushed his thumb, and she looked up from their hands to his deep green eyes gazing at her from beneath the brim of his battered straw hat. She wasn’t a silly country girl who got all flattered and tongue-tied over a sexy-as-hell cowboy in a pair of jeans worn thin in interesting places. “It might be a bit early in the day for passion fruit, Sheriff.”

  “Dylan,” he corrected her as a slow, easy smile curved his lips. “And, honey, it’s never too early for passion fruit.”

  It was the word “honey” that got to her. It just slid inside and warmed the pit of her stomach before she could do a thing about it. She’d heard him use the same endearment with the waitress, too, and she’d thought she was immune. She wasn’t. She tried to think up a witty comeback and couldn’t. He’d invaded her personal space, but she didn’t know what to do about it. She was saved by the approach of his son.

  “Dad, did ya get the night crawlers?” Adam asked.

  Dylan dropped his hand from the bottle and took a step back. His gaze lingered on Hope for a moment longer; then he directed his attention to his son. “Right here, buddy,” he said and held up the two Styrofoam cups.

  “Those are worms?” Hope glanced from what she’d assumed were little ice-cream cups to his face.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But they were”-she pointed to the glass case- “next to the milk.”

  “Not right next,” he assured her. He took the chocolate milk from beneath his arm and gestured toward Hope. “Adam, say hello to Ms. Spencer.”

  “Hi. Do you need me to scare any more bats?”

  She shook her head as she gazed from one to the other.

  “What kind of doughnuts did you get for breakfast?” Dylan asked his son. “Powdered sugar?”

  “Nope, chocolate.”

  “Well, I guess I can choke down a few chocolate.”

  “We’re going fishing for Dolly Varden,” Adam informed her.

  Obviously they thought worms in the milk-and-juice case was perfectly normal. “Dolly who?”

  Deep laughter rumbled within Dylan’s chest as if he were extremely amused. “Trout,” he answered. “Come on, son. Let’s go catch some Dolly who.”

  Adam laughed, a younger, childlike version of his father.

  “City girls,” Dylan scoffed as he walked away.

  “Yeah,” Adam added, the squeak of his rubber-soled sneakers keeping perfect time with the heavier tread of his father’s worn boots.

  Really, who were they to laugh at her? Hope wondered as she watched them move toward the front counter. She wasn’t the crazy one who thought worms belonged next to milk. She was normal. She set the bottle of juice in her basket and made her way to the housewares aisle. Across rows of Comet and boxes of dog food, she watched a large man with a potbelly, a handlebar mustache, and a blood-smeared apron approach from the back. As he rang up Dylan’s purchases, Hope moved up and down the aisles and dumped two pairs of pink rubber gloves, half a gallon of pine cleaner, and a can of Raid into her basket. In the small produce department, she smelled the peaches for freshness.

  “See you around, Ms. Spencer.”

  She glanced up from her peaches to where Dylan stood holding the door open for A
dam. He looked over at her, one corner of his mouth curved up, and then he was gone.

  “Are you ready to be rung up?” the big man behind the counter asked. “ ‘Cause if you’re gonna be a while yet, I’ve got some meat to wrap in the back.”

  “I’m ready.” She placed the peaches in a produce baggie and walked to the counter.

  “Are you the woman with the car alarm?”

  Hope set the basket on the counter, next to a display of cigarettes and lighters. “Yes,” she answered warily.

  “Ada called me last night when that thing went off,” he said, his big fingers pecking out the keys on the cash register.

  “I’m sorry she disturbed you.”

  “She nearly choked to death on a chicken bone, you know.”

  Apparently Hope was the only one who found that odd.

  He checked the price sticker on the Raid, then rang it up. “Are you going to be in town long?”

  “Six months.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He looked up. “Are you a tree hugger?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.” He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a paper sack. “You don’t look like no tree hugger.”

  Hope didn’t know if he was complimenting her or not, so she kept quiet.

  “I hear you’re staying at the Donnelly place.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “What are you going to do out there?”

  That was the second time in two days she’d been asked that question. “Spend a relaxing summer.”

  “My wife, Melba, was over at Dixie’s getting her hair kinked when Ada called from the Sandman saying you need some available men.”

  “To clean the bats out of the house I leased,” she clarified. He subtotaled her purchases and she pulled a twenty from her wallet.