True Blend

by DeMaio, Joanne

  Pencils move along the handouts, labeling and note taking. The students, four men and two other women, study the diagrams. Amy knows they are picturing themselves finding pleated drapes to hide their bulk, or a wingback chair wide enough to conceal their bodies.

  “Cover is something you can get behind that will either stop or deflect bullets. Try for cover rather than concealment. Any ideas?”

  The young woman who Amy had seen pencil in college student on her information card raises her hand. Ron nods at her. “A refrigerator?”

  “Good,” Ron answers. “Defense strategies in the home exist. A washer and dryer. Even a heavy mattress will work. Cover. Try to place something thick or hard, preferably both, between yourself and the attacker. The handout lists more suggestions.” He looks at his watch. “Quick review, then we’ll adjourn until next week.”

  Amy straightens her papers, knowing that most of what’s on them is common sense, which flies right out the window in dangerous situations. She could hardly think at all when Grace was kidnapped.

  “Defensive tactic options. Consider a dog. Big or small, doesn’t matter, although a hundred-pound canine is a good deterrent. Either way, any size dog will alert you to approaching danger before it’s actually on your premises. The bark alone may change an intruder’s mind.” As the instructor paces the class, he leafs through the yellow information cards each student filled out, listing names, occupations, reason for attending and the handgun they own.

  “A cell phone. Mandatory defensive tactic.” The students’ pencils pause as they listen for explanation. “Why?” he asks. “Trewist?”

  “In case the attacker cuts the landline before entering the home.”

  “Right. He’s trying to prevent any 9-1-1 calls. He cannot disable your cell phone however. So you’ve got dogs, secure deadbolt locks, cell phones. And you’ve got cover and concealment for initial defensive actions. Any questions?”

  “Yes.” Amy raises her hand. “What about children? Young children. Can they be taught anything that might help?”

  The instructor’s voice softens, as though he recognizes her. As though her question draws the connection between the young widow and small child and recent kidnapping still headlining the daily news.

  “How old is your daughter?” he asks, though she’d not identified the child as male or female.

  “Almost three. In a few months.”

  “Three.” Ron rubs his chin and expels a long breath of air. “Teach her a good place to hide.”

  In her mind, a roving camera scans the old farmhouse, moving through each room with his suggestion. It passes her living room, her growing collection of antique tables and lamps backlit by sunshine reaching through the paned windows. Should she skirt one of the tables with a heavy fabric? The camera glances in her dining room, seeing the hutch filled with vintage china and a collection of crystal goblets leaving no room for a child’s body. It moves into the country kitchen, cozy with cushioned chairs and a distressed blue table and plenty of cabinets where she can carve out a child-sized space. She pictures Grace cowering behind a cabinet door, knowing if life ever comes to that, her child will never talk again.

  * * *

  Replica of Jacqueline Kennedy dress worn at wedding to Onassis. Silk crepe-de-chine cream color wedding dress with lace inserts. Funnel collar and long lace sleeves.

  She’d almost missed the gown mentioned in the estate sale listing of Queen Anne end tables and mahogany dressers and an extensive record collection and a twelve-place-setting china set. Amy’s grandmother always told her that lace stitches lead us on a journey the same way moments do, stitched together to make a life. Could Amy find answers in the lace stitches of Kennedy’s dress? How did Jacqueline continue on after the nightmare day of JFK’s assassination? Amy had to see it, to be certain this Valentino reproduction was an exact copy of the Kennedy dress. Because an exact replica will have a secret within those stitches, one that might help her.

  She pulls her SUV up to the curb behind Celia’s car and looks out at the stone colonial house with a wraparound porch. Several cars are parked in the driveway already. She gets out and notices the close humid weather before lifting Grace from the car seat.

  “Hey guys,” Celia says, walking up to them. “Wow, what a turnout. They must have lots of good stuff up for grabs.”

  “Well all I want is that dress. Ready to go in?”

  “First I have to say hello to this cupcake.” Celia bends down low to Grace. “Hi there, pretty,” she says, leaving a quick kiss on Grace’s cheek. “You ready to gown shop with the big ladies?”

  Grace nods slightly and reaches for Amy’s hand. They start up the shaded walkway toward the arched front door. “How’s Ben?” Amy asks. She keeps an eye on a few shoppers hurrying ahead of them, particularly one who glanced back her way. Her brown hair is shoulder length and she wears denim shorts, a tank top and brown leather sandals. Another defensive tactic she learned is to be aware of your surroundings. Always. Would a stalker be this close, a shadow brushing past her at a private estate sale?

  “He’s taking Sasha to Puppy Kindergarten tonight.” Celia bends down toward Grace. “Sasha’s going to doggy school.”

  “Thanks, Celia. For trying,” Amy says softly, her concerned gaze moving from the woman ahead of them to her daughter. “Don’t give up on her.”

  “Never,” Celia answers, squeezing Amy’s hand. “Hey, check out the old wicker chairs. Those would look great on my porch.”

  “On the way out, Cee. I’ve got to see that wedding dress before someone beats me to it.” Amy steps inside the house and notices the cool dank, first, the way you will when a home hasn’t been lived in and has been closed up for a while. She stops at a folding table in the foyer manned by family members collecting fees for any items bought. “Can you steer me to the wedding dress you advertised?”

  A woman in jeans and an old college tee rifles through papers and hands her a printout with a copied photograph on it. “That’s my mom. She borrowed a little Jackie style and wore the dress in 1970. Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “She is.” Amy studies the woman who married over forty years ago now. Stitches, stitches, decades of moments stitched together for this bride and groom, with a look inspired by Jackie. One person’s moments have a way of rippling into others sometimes. “Can I keep this?” she asks the bride’s daughter.

  “Oh sure. I’ve got plenty here. The dress is upstairs, second room on the right. It’s been folded up in a cedar chest all these years, so it’s wrinkled. But it should hang out just fine, if you’re interested.”

  As she’s talking, a woman passes too closely from behind and turns left into an elaborately wallpapered dining room. Amy notices it’s the same woman who brushed against her outside on the walk. She looks back at the photograph then. “So it’s not an authentic Valentino?”

  “Believe me, if it were I’d be selling it at Sotheby’s instead of here. But it’s really clean, no stains, no rips. Worn only once. She and my dad were married for forty years. He passed a few years before Mom.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s a beautiful dress with a lovely story then.”

  She turns to find Celia and Grace together in the living room. Celia is showing Grace an oak mantle clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock, Amy hears her whispering to her daughter.

  Upstairs, the two-piece wedding dress is laid out on the top of a bed, its white chenille bedspread accentuating the rich cream color of the satin and lace. “Oh my,” Amy says under her breath. She knows from one look it’s in pristine condition.

  Celia comes up behind her. “Can’t you just see Jackie in that outfit?”

  “Can I ever.” She lifts the top by the shoulders and holds it up at arm’s length. Stitches, stitches. What motivated Jacqueline to choose this particular Valentino dress for her wedding to Onassis? What story is stitched behind that decision? Bands of cream silk alternate with bands of floral-detailed lace, the scalloped lace over a pleated skirt giving it
Jackie flair. Her new post-Kennedy identity weaves itself into the design. Amy lowers the dress for Grace to see. “Isn’t it pretty? You can help me hang it in the shop window.”

  Grace reaches out to touch the lace before Amy folds the ensemble into the pale blue box it came in and heads toward the staircase. As she’s about to step down, that same brunette is coming up the stairs, their gaze meeting long enough for Amy to notice her brown eyes are small, her nose tipped. Once she passes, Amy continues down to purchase the dress.

  “I see you’re asking two hundred. Would you take one?”

  “Well. It is a Valentino knock-off. How about one-fifty?”

  “One twenty-five, cash?”

  “Deal.”

  She turns to Celia behind her. “Cee, did you want to look at those wicker chairs?”

  “No. Actually Grace and I are going to browse for a minute. I’m going to treat her to something.” She reaches down and takes Grace’s hand. “We’ll meet you outside.”

  When they walk out a little while later, Grace is holding up a doll for Amy to see. “It’s wearing a tulle wedding gown, just like your brides,” Celia says. “I think it’s an old cake-topper. She spotted it in a curio case and I bought it for her. And this is for you.” She pulls a necklace from a brown bag. “If anyone needs a wish right now, you do. So maybe you can wish on this star.”

  Amy takes the sterling necklace from her, touching the oval camphor stone set in an ornate silver setting, a silver star set in the stone. Her eyes tear as she looks up at Celia.

  “It’s from the 1900s. So I’m thinking it’s got lots of good wish juju.” She winks at Amy and takes Grace’s hand again. “Now how about we stop at Whole Latte Life for a coffee, and an ice cream for Miss Grace here. And I want to hear about that g-u-n, like you promised.”

  “Ice cream for three, Cee.” She presses her forehead with the back of her hand. “It’s way too hot for coffee.”

  * * *

  “What?” Amy asks, smiling uncomfortably. She’d gone from talking about lace wedding gowns to whispering about black semiautomatic weapons, all in ten minutes time.

  “You look the same, that’s all. And yet there’s this change,” Celia says over her hot fudge sundae. “Your thinking’s different.”

  “It has to be now.” Amy leans close. “I had my first defensive handgun lesson today.”

  “No way. When I called, Sara Beth said she was watching Grace while you were at therapy.”

  “Yup.” She turns to Grace and wipes a dribble of chocolate ice cream from her chin. “That’s my therapy.”

  “You know, some people shop for therapy, Amy.”

  Amy looks over at the door when a woman walks in, that same brunette with denim shorts, tank top and brown leather sandals. “Well Cee, if anyone thinks about coming into my home again … Let’s just say this therapy prepares me. Forewarned is forearmed, remember?” She nods in the direction of the brunette standing at the take-out counter. “Every time I turn around, I see her,” she whispers. “Is she following us?”

  Celia glances over at the woman. “I think you just have an overactive imagination right now. Addison’s a small town. I’ve bumped into people too, shopping, going out to eat. It happens.”

  So is every stranger a threat now? Will every familiar face put her on edge like this? Once she’s back home and Grace is in bed, she locks the deadbolts on the doors and heads to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. First, though, she checks her email on the laptop, so glad to see one from George. It’s brief and a little mysterious, saying only that he hopes she enjoys listening to her favorite radio station tonight. “What are you up to?” she whispers before putting on the stereo softly and finding the lite station. How many times has he teased her that she is a hopeless romantic, listening to the sappy songs dedicated to lovelorn hearts? Then he serenades her with a line or two from an old standard.

  “Join me in bringing friends and lovers together tonight, taking your requests on the love line.” The disc jockey’s voice pours forth like smooth syrup, his silken words tying the songs together with declarations of romance and sweet nothings. Amy listens as she brings her tea and laptop into the living room. The DJ tells someone named Sal that Laura misses him terribly and will be home soon, then plays What a Wonderful World. She wonders about Laura. Is she nearby? At work? Or far away on a trip, emailing her request to the local station. No matter what happens, love is always in the air. That’s why she listens to this station, she told George. Through any tragedy, any distance, the airwaves shimmer with it.

  A breeze drifts in through the open windows and the day’s summer heat lingers into the evening. Amy searches online for Jackie Kennedy’s Onassis-wedding dress. She wants to design a placard to place next to it in the shop, giving her brides a sense of history with the gown.

  “Pick up the phone and join the love line that stretches from here to there, bringing hearts and lovers together.” Crickets chirp lazy in the heat, and in the glimpse of night sky visible through the window, it’s easy to imagine a crisscrossing network of love reaching across the skies, stars glimmering at each connection. “Lovers like George and Amy.”

  She spins around, staring at the small stereo on the bookcase.

  “Amy, George is sending a special message. He wants to let you know that he finally got it right. He’s certain of it. He loves you and is missing you tonight, Amy.”

  Lyrics about finding the right someone, the only one who thrills, wind through the quiet room then, the brush sweeping across the drum, the piano light, the tempo slow. And it’s as though George is there, telling her It Had to Be You. She pictures him sitting alone in his office catching up on paperwork, paying bills, his hands moving over the calculator. The meat cutting equipment beyond gleams after his routine wash-down. Only his brass lamp throws a circle of illumination on his cluttered desk as he bends over his work, the computer screen before him.

  And he tuned to her radio station, to her lovesick program. He had picked up the telephone in his hushed office and talked to the DJ about her. His black apron hangs on a wall hook, his white shirtsleeves are turned back and he needs a shave at this late hour. She imagines the rough feel of his face, imagines pressing her fingers against it and George taking her hand in his and kissing it. And his voice, his voice. Quiet. She walks to the window open to the distant cornfields and the vast summer night sky above. And somehow, in the still heat, through the song lyrics, she hears his voice, too.

  Twenty-three

  GEORGE LOOKS IN THE MIRROR and his father looks back at him. He stands tall, his dark hair neatly combed. There is more heft to his carriage than to George’s. Maybe it comes with age. Gray creeps into his hair at the temples. The image appears more tired than George remembers his father looking. Did he do this to him? Did worry age him? His father stares back with familiar eyes. But is it really his father, or do the shadows of the room deceive him?

  “Dad?” George asks.

  The reflection looks down and adjusts crisp white shirt cuffs before slipping into a tailored black suit jacket and shrugging the shoulders perfectly into place. Lastly, he slips on the ring, ruby set in gold. Then his eyes lift and meet George’s. There is disappointment in them, but it softens with the connection.

  “You raised the bet,” the reflection says.

  “What?” George misses that voice and aches to hear more. To have his father back.

  “You told her you love her. She’s a good girl, George. I’m proud of you.” His brow furrows. “But how will you protect her now? You raised the bet.”

  “What bet?” George drags his hand across his eyes, rubbing away the uncertainty of the conversation. Is it really his father or is he only seeing features in his own face reminding him of the man? He touches his hair and watches the mirror carefully.

  “You’re forcing the stalker’s hand. He moves with you. When you’re idle, he is. When you make a move, he does. Telling her you love her is a big move. Just be careful, son.”

/>   George looks from his father’s ruby ring up to the white shirt and black jacket before looking down at his own white work shirt and black trousers. His mind has to be playing tricks on him. Isn’t it him in the mirror?

  “I had to tell her. I love her and don’t want to lose her. But she doesn’t know what I did.” When his gaze returns to his face, Nate brushes tile dust off his hands while keeping an eye on George. “Nate?” George shakes his head.

  “Don’t you see? You’re the one putting her at risk. You’re putting everyone at risk, including yourself. And now Dad’s upset. I was trying to look out for you now that he’s gone. You know, to keep the family together. You and me. Like always. Why the hell’d you let it get this far with her?”

  “Get this far?”

  “In the game. Your hand’s not strong enough. You’re looking at a bad beat.” He deals George five quick cards.

  George catches the cards in his hand, noticing the ruby ring on his own pinky now. The stone glimmers like a small pool of fresh blood. “I’ve got to protect my hand, Nate. I’ve got to protect Amy. You dragged her into this mess and I swore I’d get her out. I never meant to fall in love with her.”

  “You should’ve folded. He’ll raise you, you know,” Nate says from behind the cards fanned in front of his face. “That stalker.”

  Perspiration beads on George’s forehead. “He’s bluffing. I’ll snap him off.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve got it in you, brother.”

  “What do you mean?” George tugs on his white shirt cuffs the same way his father did. He tucks the shirt neatly into his black trousers.

  “It’s your image, you know?” George hears a familiar noise. Nate has released the safety on a forty-five. When George looks up, hosiery presses against his brother’s face. Or is it his own, his nose pulled to the side beneath the hosiery strain, his skin flattened abnormally, his eyes slits. “It’s all about image.”