by M. Leighton
In fact, I found myself hoping I was.
The next day, everything went as planned. I made it out of the house and to the bus stop without throwing up once. Unfortunately, between the exhaust from the bus and the curvy country roads, I felt sure I was practically green by the time I got to school. It was a no-brainer when I got to homeroom and asked to go to the bathroom that I’d be excused. Mrs. Clark looked at me and cringed. “Yeah, you’d better. You don’t look too good.”
I nodded, took the pass, and headed down the hall. I bypassed the bathroom and made my way toward the gym. I could leave through those doors with less likelihood of being caught by a teacher. Besides that, it was on the side of the school closest to Main Street, which is where the pharmacy was.
Once I was clear of the building, I cut through the grass and walked behind the row of houses that separated me from the pharmacy. When I finally got there, I kept my head down as I walked through the door. I hurried along one end of the store, checking each aisle for anyone I knew or anyone who might know my mom or Alton. When I saw that there was only one old lady in the store, I made my way back through the aisles looking for pregnancy tests. Turned out they were at the end of a row with condoms and tampons, in that order. Condoms, tampons, pregnancy tests. I wondered at the logic that went into that placement. I wondered if the people who set up the store said to themselves, “Well, if you don’t use the first one and you don’t need the second one, you’ll surely come looking for the third one.”
I surely did.
I scooped up a test and hurried as quickly as I could to the checkout, where I all but flung money at the guy behind the register and flew out the door. I tucked the test into my backpack and practically ran back to school.
Unfortunately, once there, I read the directions and discovered that the test was only completely accurate when tested on first morning urine. I’d flushed that long ago. I was both frustrated and dejected, but nevertheless, I slipped the box back into my backpack and headed to my locker. There was only one thing I could do.
Wait.
Wait to find out if my life was going to be turned upside down. Wait to find out if I had the mother of all bombs to drop on Momma. Wait to find out if I was carrying a little piece of Dane James inside me.
Fear nibbled at me. It nipped and bit like a mouse chewing its way through a wall. But despite the fear, I felt an intense excitement. I chose to focus on that as I walked to my second period class.
Yes, I could wait one more day to see the results, even though, in my heart, I already knew.
2004
32 Years Old
Chapter 19
Within a day, a routine develops. I wake and go downstairs to find coffee waiting for me. I take a cup to the front porch and watch the fields for a while, then I go back inside to start the day.
It seems that Celina and I are on our own for breakfast, which is actually fine. I don’t know what Momma does in the morning, but she doesn’t fix breakfast and she doesn’t appear to eat breakfast. In fact, since that first morning, she just disappears until the afternoon. I don’t know if she has committees or social plans, or if she’s just out doing…whatever Katherine Peterson does. I have no clue, and I figure if she wants me to know, she’ll tell me.
Once my daughter is fed, we pretty much have the house to ourselves for the day. At some point in the late afternoon, my mother comes back to get dinner started. She’s busy with that until it’s time to eat, which we all do together. She’s very quiet, and I try to keep my conversation with Celina restricted to things that the great patrons of Shepherd’s Mill would deem acceptable. That just serves to remind me how boring these people are.
Today, however, is different. I got Celina going with her homeschooling (going to school with all its various sick kids and germs is too risky while her immune system is down) and took my shower. I got out and put on clothes my mother would approve of for the first time in months. I have an appointment at ten a.m. with the human resources person at Lees and Hammer, the CPA firm where I’ll be handling some accounts. Finding such an ideal job—one that pays well, has great insurance, and lets me work from home—was one of the biggest deciding factors for coming back to this town. I need all of those things to be able to take care of my daughter, and Lees and Hammer just so happens to offer them.
Today is just the day to get paperwork completed and pick up whatever files they want to send with me. That sort of thing. No big deal really. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. Well, I’m not really nervous per se; I’m just uneasy about being back in Shepherd’s Mill. I was dreading leaving the house. I’m not looking forward to running into people I knew a lifetime ago. But, alas, I must risk it.
I smooth my pencil skirt after I get out of the car, and I throw my purse over my shoulder. I remind myself that I’m not the girl who left here all those years ago. I’m a strong, independent woman whose life will not change one iota based on the approval or disapproval of the folks in this town.
I tell myself that all the way to the door of the three-story brick building that rests beside the biggest bank in town.
I pull open the door and check in with the receptionist. She tells me to have a seat as she makes a quick call. A few minutes later, the elevator dings and an older woman I don’t recall ever seeing steps out. She has brown hair cut into a chin-length bob, and it’s as professional and unimaginative as the rest of her seems to be, from her drab brown suit to her functional black pumps. She makes a beeline for me, her smile stiff but polite, and she stops in front of me and holds out her hand.
“Brinkley Sommers.”
I take it. It’s cool and bony and the grip is firm. “Yes. Mrs. Griffin?”
She nods. “Let’s get you set up.”
She turns around and walks off. I assume I’m to follow her, so I do. She takes me to the second floor, to a corner office with a single window. It’s as austere as its occupant. The paint is a muted beige and the décor is minimal—single chair in shades of brown, single picture of a forest above the desk, and an empty console table along one wall. It makes me wonder if she hasn’t been here long. Or if this is just a bland extension of the woman herself.
I’m inclined to believe it’s the latter.
She motions to the chair with her hand as she rounds the desk. I sit on the edge, crossing my legs and setting my purse on the floor.
“As you know, you’ll be handling several of the corporate accounts. Bruce, the senior accountant over corporate, will be your primary contact. Anything he can’t answer will be taken up by Mr. Kraus himself.”
A tiny alarm bell goes off in the back of my mind. When I researched this firm, the only information given was that Nathanial Lees and Michael Hammer had started the business in the early 1960’s and it had been a family business since then, growing through the years until today. Now they’re handling some of the biggest clients in the Carolinas. I didn’t go to school with any Lees or any Hammers, so I figured I’d be safe with whomever in the family the business had been handed down to.
But Kraus…that’s a name I recognize.
“Mr. Kraus you said?” I hope my voice is casual and not full of the dread I feel.
“Yes. Taylor Kraus is the managing partner here. You’ll be meeting his wife soon. She helps run the business end of things, and she specifically asked to see you when you came in.”
I gulp. “Really? And who did he marry?”
“Lauren. Lauren Stringer. You remember her, don’t you, Brinkley?”
I remain perfectly still even though I want to throw myself on the floor and scream, Why??????
“I do. We went to school together. All three of us did actually.”
Mrs. Griffin nods, her eyes sharp on me. “You, uh, you don’t remember me, though, do you?”
Oh shit.
“I…I…uh…I…” I bumble along, laughing anxiously as I struggle not to squirm in my seat. Finally, I just deflate a little and cringe. “No. I’m sorry, but I don’t. It’
s been a long time since I left, though. And my memory…” I tap the side of my head like I’m shaking marbles loose, but my nonchalance doesn’t seem to be helping matters. Mrs. Griffin just continues to stare at me.
“My maiden name was Shields. Cassie Shields.”
My mouth drops open. “Cassie? Oh my God, I didn’t even recognize you!” At my words, her mouth snaps into a thin line, so I hurry to add, “You look amazing.”
Her expression softens a bit at that. Or at least I think it does. It’s sort of hard to tell. Reading her emotional temperature is a lot like trying to gauge the warming of a polar ice cap. Is that a drip I see?
“Thank you. A lot has changed since school.”
She doesn’t seem too happy about that either, if I had to guess.
Cassie wasn’t fat by any means, but she was a little heavier in school. Her hair was a long flowing mass of sable curls and her eyes were a sparkling blue. I can see the resemblance now that I know who she is, but whatever made Cassie Cassie back then has clearly been remodeled, whether by choice or forcibly removed. She was always one of Lauren’s biggest supporters. Maybe that’s taken its toll after all these years.
“I can see that.” I sit, shaking my head and smiling, and when she says nothing else and the silence grows as loud as the tension, I reiterate, “Well, you look great.”
That’s not entirely untrue either. She’s trim and evidently successful. And her skin is still fairly taut and unlined. That counts as looking great, right?
“You haven’t changed at all. Still the same beautiful Brinkley.”
My smile falters. The words themselves are complimentary, but her tone… it’s anything but.
I feel like the legs of my hope have been swept out from under me. I’d really hoped that, after all these years, the social divide might’ve shrunk. At least to some degree. Finding out that it hasn’t, like not at all, is more than a little bothersome.
I chastise myself.
How in the world did I ever think coming back here was a good idea? There’s too much history here, too much drama, too much bias and elitism, too much…everything. Just too much. Why would I have expected it to be any different now?
What the hell was I thinking?
But then, like a ray of sunshine breaking through storm clouds, images of my child—the day she was born, her first day of kindergarten, the first time she rode off on her bicycle without falling over—drop into my mind in bursts. My muscles relax, my smile returns, and the reason for all that I do returns with it. My sweet Celina has always brought to my weary soul.
“You’re wrong, Cassie.” My voice is light and sincere. “I’m not the girl I once was.”
“Then why did you come back here?”
“My daughter. My little girl. Everything I do, including coming back here, is for her.”
She only nods, but for the first time since I arrived, the pinched, constipated look is curiously absent from her face. After a few seconds, she moves the conversation back into professional waters, but all the while I can’t help wondering about the lives of the people I once knew. And if they’re all as miserable as Cassie Shields seems to be.
An hour and ten minutes later, I’m placed in another office, but on the third floor. It’s also a corner space, but this one has a wall full of windows and the décor is as posh and attractive as the young girl I once knew was. My surroundings prepare me for who Lauren Stringer has grown up to be.
The floors are some sort of dark cherry, the walls a deep, rich cream. A thickly cushioned sofa boasts perfectly plumped pillows and expensive artwork is strategically placed throughout the room. The centerpiece, however, is a gorgeous desk. It’s decorated with swirls of inlaid wood and intricate burl patterns that form a beautiful design that can be seen the moment one enters the room. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a Parnian desk, which likely set her back nearly ten grand, if not more.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I wouldn’t have recognized the voice had I not known to whom it belonged. Its low tones are modulated to reflect the woman of style, success, and sophistication she’s become. It oozes culture and confidence, and it gives me a mental image of Lauren Stringer before I even turn around.
I pivot, tacking my smile firmly in place. I’d rather be set on fire and thrown from an airplane than give her the satisfaction of rattling me.
“Lauren!” I feign surprise. I don’t know why, but I don’t want her to think I’ve somehow prepared for this meeting.
I stand where I am and let her come to me. Not only do I get to further observe her, but it feels like it tilts the power of the meeting in my direction. That might be crazy and categorically untrue, but the whole situation is weird and I’m doing the best I can with it. So, dammit, she’s walking to me.
I watch her as she does.
My old high school friend has aged well. Of course. She probably dared Mother Nature to even glance her way. Lauren was always ballsy and entitled like that.
Her figure is trim and curvy, sheathed in a black dress with a white wedge cutting in at her waist. Her eyes gleam and her hair is as dark as ever. It hangs to just below her shoulders and is swept to one side. It’s sexy yet professional. She looks like a model pretending to be a smart businesswoman. That’s weird, too.
Everything is just weird.
She reaches me in a cloud of pricey perfume and leans in to kiss the air beside my cheek. That’s new.
When she backs away, I see that her face is as youthful as it was fifteen years ago. I can only assume she’s discovered the same cosmetic genius my mother found. The guy probably gives a Shepherd’s Mill discount. Or maybe he takes coupons.
“It’s been a long time, Brinkley.”
“It has, hasn’t it?”
“Too long.”
“Yes, it has.”
“You look well.”
“As do you.”
Our interaction is like a boring, poorly scripted show on the public access channel.
“Would you like a drink?” She makes her way to a bar that’s been cleverly disguised along one wall. She opens up a door I hadn’t noticed and takes out a decanter of something clear. Vodka perhaps?
I shake my head. “No, thank you.” I don’t add that it’s not even lunchtime and that I’m not a raging alcoholic.
“Suit yourself.”
She pours a finger or two into a cut crystal glass, adds a splash of tonic and twists a lime onto the rim, then turns back to me.
She sweeps one French-tipped hand toward the sofa and we both walk over and take a seat. She sits catty corner, crossing her legs like she’s doing a photo shoot. I sit all the way back and hold my purse on my lap. I’m not here to pretend I’m something I’m not, and I’m not here to impress an old acquaintance. All of this boils down to one thing and one thing only.
Celina.
“So, what brings you back to Shepherd’s Mill?”
“I thought this might be a good place to raise my daughter.”
Lies. All lies.
That’s like saying hell is a nice place to raise your kids.
I don’t know why, but I don’t want to tell Lauren the details of my daughter’s sickness. It feels like a betrayal to Celina, which makes no sense whatsoever. But still, that’s how it feels, so I keep the rest to myself.
One raven brow twitches the tiniest bit. “You have a daughter? And you brought her here?”
I nod.
“So you’re married then?”
“No.”
“But you have a child.” Not a question, a statement. A judgy, loaded one.
“Yes.” I resist the urge to cop an attitude and ask her what of it.
“Ahhhh.” She nods like something just clicked into place. “Does Dane know?”
I frown and my heart rate increases. The mere mention of his name has always been enough to raise my blood pressure. Even after fifteen long years, it still has the power to do that to me. But this is more than that. Lauren never did anything without a
purpose in mind. I’m sure that hasn’t changed, so what’s this about?
I don’t know, so I go with an old standby when I’m confused. I play dumb. “Dane? Dane James?”
She smirks. “Yes, Dane James.”
“Why would he know?”
“I just assumed he, of all people, would know.”
I feel a light film of sweat break out across my upper lip. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“So you two haven’t kept in touch?”
“No, we haven’t. Why would we?”
“And you have no idea what’s happened to him?”
Her tone is downright feline. She’s practically salivating over a salacious piece of gossip. She might as well meow and lick her claws as she waits for bloodshed.
“No, I sure don’t.” Although now I’m approximately six million times more curious than I was when I walked into this building an hour ago.
I keep that part to myself.
Lauren leans toward me, her expression relaxing into one of conspiratorial delight. Bemusedly, I think to myself that I’m a little shocked her face will move this much. I figured as much Botox and filler as is bound to be in it, her muscles would be basically immobile by now.
“If you want to know, I’ll tell you.” I say nothing as I try to maintain my blank, unaffected appearance. After a few seconds, when it’s clear I’m not taking the bait, Lauren’s lips curve into another sly smile and she purrs, “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know about you and Dane. Angel never could keep a secret.”
I’m in desperate need of a change of subject, and this is as good as any. “Angel. Wow, I haven’t seen her in ages. Whatever happened to her? Did she marry?”