She drifted left again, closing her eyes now, timing the slap of her sneakers on the tar to the whap-whap-whap of Essie Bunch’s rag rug against the veranda rail just beyond the fog. She moved left again, then left even more, until she guessed she was in the middle of the road, and on she walked. Her mind’s eye counted satellite dishes, her ear caught Sally Jessy Raphael’s voice coming from the Websters’ open window, The Price Is Right from the Cleegs’, QVC from Myra Ellenbogen’s. The nearer she got to town, the closer the houses were to each other. She heard muffled voices, the flap of a flag on its pole, the buzz of a saw making firewood for the cool September nights ahead.
The sounds were very real. Yet when she opened her eyes, the swirl of the fog suggested something unearthly— like the Pearly Gates, which was a dream if ever there was one. Jenny Clyde wasn’t going to heaven, that was for sure.
Another car materialized deep in the fog. Its engine was smoother, newer, more intent. The crackle of its tires on the broken pavement suggested a slower speed. This car was cruising. She knew the sound of it. This car belonged to Dan O’Keefe.
Jenny continued on down the middle of the road a little longer… a little longer… a little longer… a little longer…
She jogged to the side seconds before the Jeep emerged from the fog. Not surprisingly, it came abreast of her and drew to a stop.
“Jenny Clyde,” the deputy scolded, “I saw you there.”
She shrugged and focused on the tail of the Jeep. The fog played around it, little white imps first on the fender, then the window, then the roof rack.
“You take chances when you do that,” he went on in a voice that held a genuine concern she didn’t often hear. He didn’t get that caring from his father. Edmund O’Keefe was hard. Maybe he had to be hard, being police chief and all. But Dan was different. “One day someone won’t see you,” he said.
“I move away in time.”
“Sure you do, because you know just who’s driving which car and how fast he’ll be coming, but one day there’ll be a car you don’t expect. You’ll wait just a little too long and— wham!— it’ll toss you right up in the air, and Lord knows where you’ll land. Listen up, Jenny Clyde. You’re playing Russian roulette, here.”
“No,” Jenny said factually, “if I was playing Russian roulette, I’d cover my ears.”
“God in heaven, don’t even think of doing that,” he scolded. He rubbed his shoulder. “So. This is the week.”
Her shrug was lopsided this time. One shoulder refused to go along with the nonchalance that the rest of her tried to express.
“Are you okay with it?” he asked.
Fixing her eyes on the ground, she smiled. “Why wouldn’t I be? He’s my father.”
“Why doesn’t that make me feel better?”
She tried to think positively. “I’m looking forward to seeing him. I kept the house up, just like he asked, so everything’s the way it was when he left. I mean, I did some things, like get a new furnace when the old one couldn’t be fixed and rebuilt the roof where the big oak fell, but I didn’t have any choice about those changes, and, anyway, I got his permission, so he won’t be mad.” Darden Clyde mad was a nightmare. Jenny knew.
“It’s been six years,” Dan remarked.
Six years, two months, and fourteen days, Jenny thought.
“And you’re all right with his coming back?”
“Fine.” What else could she say?
“Are you sure?”
She wasn’t sure at all, but her choices sucked. When she let herself think about them, she got sick to her stomach, and her mind started fighting with itself— stay, run, stay, run— until her bones locked, just locked in place. So she didn’t often think about those choices. It was easier to look into the fog and think happier thoughts.
“I’m going to the dance tonight,” she told the deputy.
“Are you, now? Well, that’s a good idea. You haven’t been to a town dance in years.”
“I’m buying a new dress to wear.”
“Another good idea.”
“At Miss Jane’s. Something pretty. I do know how to dance.”
“I’ll bet you do, Jenny.”
She took a step toward the Jeep, raked her upper lip with her teeth, focused on the spot where a prominent vein on the underside of the deputy’s forearm hit the lowered window, and murmured, “He doesn’t know I’ve been using the name Jenny. I don’t think he’d like it. I mean, it’s my middle name and all, but he liked MaryBeth, that being my mother’s name—” which was precisely why she hated it, why the sound of it brought a sharp pang to her stomach. But a sharp pang was better than what she would suffer if she made Darden mad. “So maybe you could go back to calling me MaryBeth from now on, just in case?”
When Dan didn’t answer, she dared a glance at his face. What she saw there did nothing for her peace of mind. He knew a whole lot more than most about what had happened to send Darden away six years, two months, and fourteen days ago, and what he didn’t know for sure, he had guessed.
She shook her head in a second’s pleading, then averted her eyes.
“Jenny fits you better,” he said.
His gentleness made her want to cry. Instead, she just shrugged, both shoulders this time.
“Jenny— MaryBeth— you really ought to get out of town before he comes back.”
She dug the side of her sneaker into the cracked tar at the road’s edge.
“Take a new name and start a new life someplace far away from here. I understood why you didn’t do it back then, being just eighteen and having no one to help, but you’re twenty-four now. You have work experience. There are restaurants all over the place that’d be glad to hire as trusty a waitress as you. He’d never be able to find you. You need to get away. He’s a mean man, Jenny.”
Dan wasn’t saying anything Jenny hadn’t told herself hundreds of times, thousands of times. The security she had felt when her father had first gone away had dwindled to nothing over the past few weeks. She was a bundle of nerves, when she let herself think about it.
So she didn’t. Instead, resuming her trek through the fog into town, she thought about the dress she was going to buy. It had been hanging in Miss Jane’s window for most of the summer, looking right out at her in a way that said, I was made for you, Jenny Clyde. With tiny flowers on a burgundy background, it had short sleeves, a scoop neck, and an empire waist. It hit mid-calf on the mannequin. If it hit the same length on Jenny, it would cover the scars on her legs. If not, she could wear dark tights.
She might wear dark tights anyway. Meg Ryan had worn dark tights with a nearly identical dress in a picture Jenny had seen. Not that Jenny had Meg Ryan’s looks, her smile, or her spunk. Not that Jenny could bear having people stare at her, like they stared at Meg Ryan. Jenny was a most, most, most private person.
Tonight, though, things were going to happen. Tonight, she was going to meet someone as handsome as the Sexiest Man Alive. He would be passing through town on his way to a place where he had a good job and a fine home, and he was going to fall for her so hard he would be begging her to run away with him before the week was done, and she would. She wouldn’t give it a second thought. He was the one she had been waiting for all this time.
As she turned the corner onto Main Street, the fog thinned to reveal the awnings that, in the name of urban renewal, the town had voted to install the March before. They were deep green with large white letters marking, in order, the hardware store, drugstore, newspaper office, five-and-dime, and bakery on one side of the street, and the grocery store, garden center, luncheonette, ice-cream store, and dress shop on the other.
Jenny didn’t know about urban renewal. She didn’t know what effect awnings would have if everything else stayed the same. The cars that were parked angled-in were the same cars that parked in the same spots at the same time each morning. The same people shopped in the same stores. The same people sat on the same wood benches. The same people stared at her when she pas
sed by.
Jenny couldn’t make them stop staring, but she didn’t have to watch them do it. Lowering her head enough for the bill of her cap to shield her face, she put her hands in her pockets and walked on. She hadn’t expected hellos, and she didn’t get any. When she reached Miss Jane’s, she slid her dress an anticipatory look and slipped into the store.
Miss Jane was a small woman with a large voice. Whatever difficulty she was having pushing and pulling at large sheets of tissue paper in her attempt to wrap what looked like a sizable purchase by Blanche Dunlap, she made up for in booming chatter.
“… so she drove down to Concord and bought those dishes full price. Now I can understand a dress”— this said with love—“but dishes? Dishes are covered with stew, bloody steaks, liver, for heaven’s sake, and, after that, with leavings, of which there will be plenty, since the girl can’t cook worth a dime. I’m worried, I tell you—” At which point she caught sight of Jenny. Everything about her stilled. Then she nodded. “MaryBeth.”
“Hello,” Jenny said with what she hoped was a pleasant look. She stayed by the door, alternating glances at each face and the floor, until both women turned back to the goods being wrapped. In the ensuing rustle of tissue, she tried to think of something to say, but the only thought she had was that it was just as well that few of the townsfolk ever called her Jenny. There was less to change now. It was safer.
And then she didn’t have anything to say, because the dressing room curtain parted and Blanche’s daughter, Maura, came out. “I need help, Ma.” She was twisting around, fiddling with the strap that went over her shoulder. It was connected to a baby carrier that hung lopsided on her front.
Jenny had gone to school with Maura. Though they had never been the best of friends, Jenny shot her a smile. “Hi, Maura.”
Maura looked up in surprise. From Jenny, she glanced at her mother, then at Miss Jane. Moving closer to her mother, she jiggled the strap. “Hi, MaryBeth. Gee, I haven’t seen you in ages. How’ve you been?”
“Fine. Is that your new baby?”
“Uh-huh.”
The baby was a couple of lumps in the carrier. Jenny took a step forward— all she dared— and craned her neck. She couldn’t see much. “What is it?”
“A boy. What’s the trouble here, Ma? Something’s crooked. Is my dress almost wrapped? I’m late.”
Miss Jane was working more quickly now, bagging the tissue-wrapped bundles. Blanche was concentrating on the carrier straps. Maura was covering the baby’s little bald head with a hat.
Jenny felt an achy hollow inside. After a lifetime of being eyed warily, nervously sidestepped, and deliberately avoided, she should have been used to it. But the hope that things would change never left her. She still dreamed of the day when the townsfolk would greet her with the same warmth they showed toward each other.
The dream was fast becoming a prayer. Darden Clyde was coming back. She needed help.
Blanche made a show of finishing with the strap. The carrier seemed as crooked as before, but Maura was hurriedly divvying up the bundles while she and her mother thanked Miss Jane with quick smiles and knowing looks. The smiles were stiff by the time they reached Jenny. She moved aside to let them pass.
“I’m really late,” Maura said. “Take care, MaryBeth.”
Jenny had barely raised a hand to wave, when the door closed behind them. She caught her fingers together and gave herself a minute to let the aching hollowness pass.
“May I help you, MaryBeth?” Miss Jane asked politely.
Jenny turned to the dress in the window. “I’d like to buy that.”
“What?”
Jenny hitched her chin toward the dress. “I’ve been looking at it all summer. I’d like to wear it to the dance tonight.”
“Tonight? That dress? Oh dear, I’m afraid you can’t. That dress is sold.”
Jenny’s heart fell. “Why is it still in the window if it’s sold?”
“Well, that one isn’t, but I doubt it’s your size. The one that would be your size is already sold.”
Looking at the dress from the back, Jenny could see where it had been pinned to fit the mannequin. But the mannequin was skinny. Jenny was only slim. It might fit. “Could I try it on?”
“You could for color and style, but it would be a waste of your time. I couldn’t possibly get the right size here in time for the dance. Actually, I doubt I could get the right size at all. This dress was part of the summer line. Everything coming in now is for fall and winter.”
Jenny had been thinking about the dance for weeks. For just as long, she had been picturing herself in this dress. She went to the window and touched the fabric. It was as soft as she had imagined. “You do alterations, don’t you?”
“Alterations, yes. Recuttings, no. This dress will be ridiculously big on you, MaryBeth.”
“It’s Jenny,” Jenny said softly, defiantly, because something told her that Miss Jane would call her MaryBeth to her dying day and be no threat at all when it came to Jenny’s father. “May I try it on, please?”
One look at the three-paneled mirror at the far end of the dressing room and Jenny nearly lost her nerve. But she wanted that dress. So, turning away, she put a toe to each heel and removed her sneakers. She slipped off her hat and, still with her back to the mirror, refastened the elastic band around her hair. She was trying to work loose strands into the mass when, looking pinched, Miss Jane joined her with the dress.
Jenny reached for it. But rather than handing it over or hanging it on a hook, Miss Jane slid her arms inside, from hem to neckline, and waited.
Jenny hadn’t expected an audience. No one had seen her without clothes in more than six years, two months, and fourteen days. Having Miss Jane see her was nearly as bad as the mirror seeing her. But it couldn’t be helped. She had a feeling Miss Jane wouldn’t let the dress go without a fight, and Jenny had a point to make.
So she hurried out of her jeans and tee shirt and took refuge inside the dress before either of them could see much. While she busied herself smoothing the front, Miss Jane did up the buttons in back, tugged at the shoulders, and brushed at the sleeves.
“Well,” the woman conceded with a sigh, “it isn’t as big as I thought it would be, but I still don’t think it’s quite right. The waist is too high.”
Jenny looked down. “Isn’t this where it’s supposed to be?”
“Well, it is. Maybe the problem is with the sleeves. They don’t look comfortable.”
Jenny moved her arms. “They feel fine.”
Miss Jane put a worried hand to her chin. She shook her head. “The neckline’s wrong. Someone with freckles like yours needs a higher neckline. And then there’s the color. Quite frankly, it clashes with your hair.”
“Quite frankly,” Jenny said, “everything clashes with my hair, but I still need a dress for the dance.”
“Perhaps one of the others would do.”
Jenny touched the folds that fell so gently from the waist that Miss Jane claimed was too high. “But I like this one.”
“You know, dear, people come to me because they respect my opinion. They trust that if they try on a dress and it doesn’t look right, I’ll tell them. Everyone in town has seen this dress in my window. They’ll know where you bought it. They’ll think that I didn’t do right by you. I wouldn’t want that.”
Jenny ran the tips of her fingers along the neckline that lay so peacefully against her freckles. “I’ll tell them. I’ll say I bought it against your recommendation. I’ll say I insisted.”
“Look in the mirror, MaryBeth,” Miss Jane said with exasperation. “It just isn’t you.”
Jenny imagined that she was wearing dark tights and pumps. She imagined that she was newly bathed and sweet smelling, with her hair brushed, her cheeks blushed, and her eyelashes darkened. Holding all that in mind, ready to superimpose it on her image, she turned to the mirror and slowly raised her eyes.
She caught her breath in delight. The dress was beautifu
l. It was just long enough, just sweet enough, just colorful enough. It was the most stylish thing she had ever worn, and it fit just fine.
Miss Jane might be right: the dress might not be Jenny. But it was what she wanted to be, which, given the hopes she had for the night, was enough.
Chapter Six
Jenny was in high spirits as she walked the two miles from her house to the VFW hall where the dance was being held. It didn’t matter that her toes pinched in the too-small suede pumps her boss had lent her, or that none of the cars that passed her stopped to give her a ride. They didn’t recognize her, that was why, looking as nice as she did.
And she did look nice. She had checked. She had to untape only three things from the mirror— a matchbook cover from Lisa Pearsall’s engagement party, an autographed PUT MOONY IN THE STATE HOUSE bumper sticker, and the printed menu from Helen and Avery Phippen’s golden anniversary bash— to have room enough to see her face. The rest of her had been reflected in the frosty glass panel on her front door. The image there had been dark and a little vague, but nice— far nicer than she had looked in a while.
The VFW hall came into sight. The glow from inside pierced the dusk, scattering yellow shards of light across the parking lot, where laughter and shouted greetings rang out above the slam of the car doors.
Jenny slowed to watch the stream of townsfolk climbing the steps and crossing the porch. Those who knew how to bake carried foil-covered goodies. Jenny herself had made a batch of the lemon crescents for which Miriam’s catering service, Neat Eats, was known. Their weight in her hand was a commitment. It meant she couldn’t turn back. There would be no watching the dance from behind the chestnut tree this time. This time she was going inside.
Carefully balancing her foil pack on one hand, she knelt to brush dust from Miriam’s shoes with the other. When she straightened, she was horrified to see dust on the hem of her dress. Quickly, she brushed at that, too. When her hand came away filthy, she batted it clean against the back of the dress, where no one would see it. She took a deep breath.
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