CHAPTER ONE
Hormonal Surges
Seedy nightclubs down back alleyways had nothing over Rachel Miller’s living room. It smelled like stagnant smoke and dust, trapped for decades. Even the atmosphere of the semi-dark space seemed to have a patch of smog drifting through it. Empty wine bottles and dirty glasses competed for space alongside Twinkie wrappers and Pop-Tart foil on the coffee table.
Unlike raucous nightclubs, the lack of noise was deafening here. Just a few pops and crackles every now and then from the fireplace. The smoldering wood provided something for Rachel to concentrate on. If not, the terminal stillness would have eaten away at her brain like a slow disease. Silence: reason fifty-three through sixty or so for her to hate being alone. She had given numbers to all the things that made her feel abandoned, but mostly when she was inebriated. When she was sober, she couldn’t remember with specificity the number assignments, such as right now. Only that she had cataloged them, along with her slipping sanity of being alone.
There was very little light emitting from the windows. The hour was still early. She pushed a button on her cell phone. The screen read seven a.m. She had made it through the night, through the storm. As promised from all the weathermen and women on the local channels, the “Superstorm Terry” had knocked on the door of her small town in Connecticut and brought with it what sounded like a baseball bat and twelve other rowdy friends. Rachel’s doors and windows shook while it blew through. There were still leaves stuck to her windows and she had seen the pieces of her fire pit scattered in the backyard from clashing against the trees. Scott had told her to put it away so many times before, but she hadn’t listened.
Her dog, Gus, even ran and hid under the bed until it was all over. Now he was lying on the couch beside her, his tail tucked between his legs and his head burrowed underneath their shared blanket. He was her only friend in the world, the only one who lived in this house and was witness to the destruction her life had become. She was no dummy—she knew if he was just a few feet taller, he’d probably jump the back gate and run away. She wouldn’t blame him.
The steadiness of his back rising and falling from his breaths eased her. She grabbed the pen she had tucked inside her notebook one more time. The tip of it was cold on her lips as she rested it there while she stared at one of the pictures on the mantel of her and her husband. She was wearing that aqua-blue dress that the spaghetti strap broke off during the first washing. It was still balled up on the shelf of her closet.
In the picture, Scott had on his seersucker suit with a pink shirt. His hand was tucked around her waist—their white teeth shined from their smiles as if they were advertising for Colgate’s whitening strips. They had both gotten a killer tan from their week in Mexico. With the pen ready to write, her hand moved to scrawl the important message.
Dear Scott,
I’m not angry anymore. Forget all the things I said before, and ignore all my messages I left on your voicemail. I forgive you.
Love,
Rachel
Rachel closed the over-used book and slid it on the coffee table. An empty wine bottle fell to the ground; a tiny drip escaped the bottle and soaked into the carpet. The sound woke her dog. She pet his head and pressed her cell phone button again. Her finger wavered over Scott’s picture. It had been ten months and two days since his death, but still she kept paying the phone bill just so she could hear his voice. Trick her mind into thinking one day he might answer. She pressed it and put it to her ear to listen.
“This is Scott. I can’t take your call right now, but please leave a message and I’ll get right back with you.” Beep.
She swallowed hard and took a deep breath.
Knock, knock, knock…
Gus jumped off the sofa and ran hysterically to the front door, barking like a dog that was just commanded to kill. The little dark patch over his right eye had gone from cute to army camouflage. He was ready to take the leg off of anyone who dared to infiltrate the world he and his master had held sacred for the last year. The noise and commotion sent Rachel into cardiac arrest. After all, it was too early in the morning for a visit from the Girl Scout troop, and the mailman didn’t usually come until after lunch. Her phone dropped to the sofa and she rose up quickly, dropping the three blankets to the ground when she did.
Swiftly, she crouched down and crawled toward the dining room window, trying her best to quietly hush her frantic dog. He was spinning circles back and forth in front of the door. Rachel peeked over the windowsill and saw a man walking from her front stoop toward the street. She didn’t recognize him. Didn’t know the gait of his walk. And what was he doing, anyway? It was early in the freaking morning. Who came to someone’s house before breakfast? Who came to her house at all, for that matter? The last time she’d had a guest, it was her mother, four months ago. As promised, if Rachel didn’t come home for a visit on her own free will, her mother would catch the next flight to see her. Everyone else knew the drill by now; Rachel wanted to be left alone.
She looked to where he was headed and discovered the answer. A large cherry picker truck with the logo of an electric company on the side door. She suddenly sprung up from the floor like a resurrected coma patient and ran toward the front door. Hopefully he’d come to turn her electricity on. It’d been out all night from the storm.
“Excuse me,” she yelled out from her opened front door. The gust of cold air sent a chill up her back, making her shiver a little. Gus took off down the walk and jumped on the guy’s leg.
He bent over and picked up the ten pound, black-and-white, Boston terrier before he looked up at Rachel. She suddenly felt naked in her pajamas and sockless feet. He smiled and came closer.
As he did, she noticed his blue eyes had the magnetism of Clint Eastwood, his lips had the boyish smile of Ryan Gosling, and his brown hair was cut just like Channing Tatum’s in that movie—what’s its name? Damn it, she needed to get her head out of the television screen. One innocent day, she sat down to see why Tom Hanks was talking to a soccer ball, and before she knew it, six months later she had worn a dip into the sofa and had binge-watched hours of HBO and Showtime.
“I believe this little guy is yours.” He handed her Gus.
Gus looked depressed. He was so close to escaping the house. Even to the edge of the front lawn would have felt as if he’d packed a bag and gone for an overnight expedition. Lately, he was only let out to the backyard and yelled at if he took to sniffing longer than five minutes after relieving himself. She almost felt sorry for the pup. That was, until she remembered what she looked like.
She nonchalantly looked down at herself. Shit, she was wearing the pants with the Cookie Monster on them. “Yum, yum, cookie” was blaring out in bright red letters. She loved them when she saw them in the store three years ago. Scott took them to the counter and paid for them, while Rachel sheepishly smiled at the checkout girl. Some things made you feel like a kid again, and could only be worn while you were in a monogamous relationship. Now…this morning…the Cookie Monster made her seem more deranged than four-years-old nostalgic. The shirt was all right, though. University of Connecticut, but strangely all the Cs were peeling off. Why did her washing machine hate her so much? Why couldn’t the Cookie Monster have faded?
She swiped her tongue across her front teeth, hoping the chocolate Pop-Tart she ate two hours ago when she couldn’t get back to sleep didn’t look like rotten holes in her smile.
Rachel crossed her arms in front, trying best to hide her braless chest and nervously tucking hair behind her ear, making sure it was still covering up the scar on her forehead. She stepped back a half step, her bare feet feeling the coldness of the metal threshold.
His warm hand touched her in the hand-off of t
he pooch. Her eyes widened from the sensation. She hoped she wasn’t sparking in any way. You know, like a battery that’d been dead for so long usually does when plugged into a working battery—by way of jumper cables. In this case, Gus her dog. And what was with him being so off-handedly attractive? Weren’t utility workers all old fogies with trucker hats and beer bellies? Gray-bearded, teeth missing, men with hair in their ears?
Rachel cradled the nervous dog in front of her. His long, boney legs sprawled out like sticks. “Yes, thank you.”
The gorgeous specimen smiled, squint wrinkles webbing at the corners of his eyes. Not too young, not too old. His short brown hair was carefully parted on the side. Hair gel was surely sacrificed to get that look. Wow, hair gel. What guy could she think of really took the time to do their hair? Scott just towel-dried his after a shower and let the curls fall where they may.
There was very little else to see of this guy under his company issue coat. The bulk of the yellow canvas kept the rest of him a mystery. Rachel seemed to be transfixed on his face and still startled by the way his touch excited her.
“I just wanted to let you know we’ve moved the tree that was down, so you can drive past the intersection.” He stretched above her to hook a dangling Christmas light back on its nail.
So what if it she meant to take them down ten months ago? Shit happens. Then before you knew it, you had four seasons of decorations hanging around for what seemed like eternity. All the major holidays would circle around again, anyway. It saved time, if you looked at it like in terms of a time-management exercise. She was sure an Easter bunny still lurked under the bushes somewhere, toting a basket. Who knows, maybe it had some Halloween candy still in it.
Her eyes drifted to his moving lips. His teeth were perfectly aligned and snow-white. She wondered how many years of braces it took to achieve that precision. She, herself, suffered what seemed a lifetime. She accused her mother of ruining her life for two of the most important middle school years she had. Tommy Metcalf, the track jock, was not known to ever once date a brace face. And by the time she got to high school and had the rusty things removed, he’d moved away with his mom and younger sister. Today, however, she loved her mother for making her wear braces. Her smile was something most people complimented first about her. It’s a shame she hadn’t flexed hers in a while.
A steady tone from his deep voice flushed through her ear canals, sedating her otherwise chronic anxiety. She tried to process what he said, clearing her throat to buy an extra second to replay what she heard him last say. Intersection?
“Do you know if I’ll have electricity today?” Her body swayed like a mother putting a baby to sleep.
“The pole that fell down took a transformer with it. The supervisor is looking it over now, but we’re going to do what we can with the downed wires in front of your house.”
He took a pair of work gloves from his pockets, switching them back and forth between each hand. They were large hands and looked a little chapped. He was no doubt a hard worker. Probably working double shifts, trying to pay off the sports car he drove. Maybe a…convertible. He would look good sitting behind the wheel of a black one, with a tan leather interior.
“So, I bet you’re used to things like this. You know, storms knocking out electricity and things like that. The overtime must be great.” Her words wavered and she half-smiled, inside secretly not wanting to end this pointless conversation. Seeing as it was the first one she’d had in months, discounting the ones she was forced to have with a therapist bi-monthly. And for those sixty minutes of agony, she swigged a shot of vodka in the parking lot before going inside.
“Yeah, I’ve been at it for a while.” His grin lit up his eyes. He rested his foot on one of the porch steps, lunging a little bit back and forth on his bent leg. “This one’s been pretty bad, though.”
Rachel’s attention was taken from his captivating smile to a car that seemed to be driving at speeds better suited for a drive-by shooting in front of her house. She looked past the stranger on her porch to better see the driver of the car. Behind the car door window, she saw his eyes staring back at her. They seemed familiar. She lifted her chin, craning her neck slightly. The guy on the porch turned his head toward the road.
“Someone you know?” he asked with his head still turned.
“I’m not sure.”
The stranger bent over, picking up something in her bushes. “Looks like this one didn’t survive the storm.”
He sat down a ceramic pumpkin in the back corner of her porch, close to where she was standing. Its top was missing. Only jagged pieces of faded orange surrounded an empty hole.
“Thanks. I’ll try to get that in a dumpster before Christmas.” She chuckled. The unusual noise sounded weird inside her head. What was happening here?
“Well, I should get back to work. Have a good day.” He tipped his head and walked back toward his crew.
Okay, so he didn’t have the best social skills she’d ever seen. He didn’t even wait for her response. Not that it would be anything earth-shattering. Just some type of confirmation that he had to go. But still, that felt a little like speed dating. She’d never been but her friend from back home had gone a couple times and told her about it. Collette said one place she went to used a gong when it was time to switch dates. Maybe Rachel’s repair guy had heard some kind of clash in the distance.
Or perhaps she looked worse than she thought. Lately, none of the high school baggers at Big Y were asking anymore whether she needed help walking her groceries to her car. Wine bottles could be very heavy and cumbersome. Add it to dog food, doughnuts, and a week’s worth of frozen meals, and she had to walk a cart to her car. Maybe she should start putting more thought into her wardrobe. For the last few months, she had been rotating her yoga pants with different oversized men’s shirts. Not exactly the style that was gracing the fashion runways, she knew. But it was comfortable and easy to transition from night wear to daytime wear without anyone being the wiser.
***
John Wetzel walked down the sidewalk away from the beautiful girl standing in the doorway. Trying to quiet the voice in his mind telling him to turn around for one more look. The sight of her wedding ring and pair of men’s shoes on the rug behind her should have been reason enough to keep him facing forward. But still, he wanted to see those big brown eyes and shy smile again. The way she stood there talking to him, curling in her toes on the yellow Oriental rug and swaying her hips side to side. He caught a glimpse of the sweatshirt but he figured her as having already graduated from college. Maybe somewhere in her late twenties, early thirties.
Even if she wasn’t married, he had a rule about women, anyway. No dating outside of a bar. A dark bar. Like the one two streets over from his pop’s hardware store on King’s Street. That’s where he’d go if he was tired of the beer in his fridge and the cocky sports anchorman on channel five, babbling about his picks for this week’s football games. And if Rick, his best friend, was given a hall pass from his wife, Amanda. They’d go to Randy’s Bar and Billiards after work sometimes and throw back six a piece. Happy hour, of course.
Women in the bar he could talk to; they weren’t off-limits to his rule. He figured if they were in that place, he wouldn’t really consider them as dating material, anyway. They were there for a good time only. A couple beers, some laughs, and if he was feeling extra lonely, a night over.
On the other hand, if you were looking for commitment material, you had to go places like the grocery store, the post office, or at a restaurant, and look for a girl surrounded by three of her closest friends. That’s how he met Kelly, his ex-fiancée and the reason for the rule of not dating women anymore. In a bar or out of one.
She was out on a girl’s night at Mockingbird, the best place in the burg for crab cakes and those matchstick hand-cut fries. With salt and malt vinegar, they were worth the drive across town. Kelly and her friends were celebrating a week’s worth of overtime. He was with Tyler and Rick that nigh
t, too, at the restaurant.
Kelly kept her eyes on him throughout dinner, giving him that try-me look with those big blue eyes of hers. They went well with her long, blonde hair. She was a true California girl, through and through. The type they cast in those movies that involved beaches. Because he knew if her body looked that good in nurses’ scrubs, it would look to-die-for in a bikini. She was wearing her hair straight and down that night, not like she had graduated to during the last months he was with her, which was short and pulled back at the ears.
He bumped into her when he was coming out of the men’s room and they struck up a conversation. Later in their relationship, she admitted to having followed him and waiting until he came out. She was good at being sneaky. He wished he had taken a hint then; maybe he would have avoided the train wreck that awaited him thirteen months later, when she was being sneaky with a co-worker in her bed.
No, he was finished with girls and the notion there was one in the world who could be trusted. But if he was a betting man, he would have to consider that girl back there on the porch might’ve been able to change his mind... once upon a time. To hell with it. There was no sense in wasting time thinking about a married woman.
***
“Well, could you have been any more obvious, Gus?” Rachel asked her dog, pacing around her bedroom, as she pulled the shades open. Dust snapped in the air as she waved her hand to avoid the pesky particles. The dim light from outside was barely able to push through the sheer curtains. “I mean, seriously. Panting and carrying on at his feet. No, I know you.” She pointed a finger at her dog, sitting on the ground, watching her with his tail pounding the floor. “You wanted out of here. You would like to escape this place.”
She sat on the edge of her bed, patting the dog on the head as he placed his paws on her leg. “I don’t blame you. It’s dragging me down, too, Gus. I know you’re unhappy. I know you need a change. Need some dog park time. Need some new tails to smell. What do you think about me?” She stood and paced some more. Cookie Monster was in full stride, now! “I need a change. Do you think I like this? It’s just that I don’t know how to do it anymore. I’m stuck, Gus. I can’t move forward. My liver is perpetually bathing in red wine. And I don’t mean the good kind. I even bought wine from a box last week.” She looked down, wondering whether Gus was getting any of this. Of course not! He was a dog. She crouched down and rubbed behind his ear, the place that made it all better for him.
The Secret He Keeps Page 1