“You really think I need this?”
Sam entered the room and examined the keypad.
Raksha nodded. “For now, Priya, yes. I don’t like that Brent. He kept spouting off that he’s a Richardson. I told him I don’t care if he’s the vice president.”
“You know Beaumont Richardson, right? Brent’s his son.”
“Sounds familiar, but I’m not impressed. If I see his face or his car, I’m calling the police.”
“They own the police.”
“See? There you go again.” Raksha’s accent thickened as she got angry. “Not everyone is in cahoots with self-important people. I know very well the officers who patrol this area. They will take my word over this Brent Richardson any day.”
“Until they return to the station and find out their jobs are in jeopardy.”
Raksha touched Amy’s arm. “Sometimes you have to trust that things will work out. That someone is looking over you.”
Sam touched her other shoulder. “I fully agree.” Then he nodded and made his way to leave. “It was nice meeting you.”
“Oh for goodness’ sake, join us for dinner. We were just getting started when you pulled up—”
“I couldn’t—”
“Nonsense. There’s too much food. Sahil and Ravi aren’t here tonight. I would be honored to serve my Priya’s protective friend.”
Sam agreed, and they made their way to the Patels’ apartment behind the office.
When they entered, Amy noticed that Nisha exchanged a knowing glance with her mother, and she whisked the wine glasses away. Amy found this irritating but figured it was just as well after last night. She didn’t need another embarrassing scene. Nevertheless, Amy thought it ironic that wine was not being served on the one day the family alcoholic was not present.
During dinner, Sam regaled the Patels with the story about the notebook and their theory about the birdhouse. Thankfully, he left out the part about Roxy and the man at the window. Raksha would have thrown a fit. But he did hint at the possibility the Richardsons might want to get their hands on the notebook, that it might contain potentially incriminating details.
The chaotic chatter Amy typically associated with a dinner at the Patels was all but absent. Every member of the family was fascinated by Sam’s storytelling.
After Sam finished, Kashi Patel made a suggestion. “You know, when you find the notebook, you should make several copies of the pages. Keep the original in a safe somewhere.”
“We have a safe-deposit box,” Raksha said. “You’re welcome to keep either one copy or the original there.”
Sam nodded. “That might be a good idea. We’ll have the upper hand if we control the notebook, assuming my sister knew something valuable.”
Raksha frowned. “I still think Brent should be punished for what he did to Amy.”
“There’s no proof,” Amy protested.
Kashi quieted them before the discussion could get out of hand. “One thing at a time, Raksha.”
After they said their good-byes, Amy and Sam made arrangements for the following day.
“I’m sure we’ll be able to go to my parents. They would have told me if they were out of town. Hopefully, they don’t already have dinner arrangements.”
“I usually work until four o’clock. Can you pick me up at Banhi’s Grill?”
“Yes. Do you normally exit out the front door?”
“Of course.”
“So how about if you exit through the back? If anyone is following you on a regular basis, they will expect you to come out the front as usual.”
“Now you’re getting all cloak-and-dagger on me.” She grinned.
“Let’s just see if we can get to my parents’ house unnoticed. This following thing is very unsettling.”
“I agree. So let’s say about four o’clock.” She pulled out her new flip phone. “I’ll text you if there’s a chance I’ll be later.”
“Sounds good. Text me now, so I have your number.”
“Will do.”
He leaned over, gave her an awkward kiss on the cheek, and rushed to his car. Amy smiled as he drove away.
After Sam left, she sent him a quick text and settled into the room. Her mind was churning over the day. Only once had she thought of her lost baby, when she saw the photograph of the pregnant woman. Now the images plagued her again, and she wondered if she would ever feel normal – if the pain and the horror would ever wash away. She thought of Mrs. Foster finally moving on, accepting her daughter’s death and refusing to consider the seemingly quixotic possibility that Emma was still alive. Amy concluded that Mrs. Foster’s resistance to Sam’s conviction was a way to shield her heart from yet another disappointment. It made total sense. Amy’s child was undeniably dead. It didn’t make it easy, but at least she didn’t have to wait a year or two to begin the process of grieving.
As the annoying voices in her head prattled on and on, Amy knew she wouldn’t sleep unless she had at least one drink. She refused to become her mother, but this period in her life was simply too painful to endure in the naked reality of the raw feelings. Just one more night. One more drink.
Amy drank in the darkness. She stared at the glowing light of her new alarm until the numbness welcomed her into the respite of sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
At 4:03 p.m., Amy stepped through the back door of Banhi’s Grill into the delivery lane. Sam stood near a pole on the west side. He sauntered toward her casually. She had borrowed another silk blouse from Raksha and taken the red one to the dry cleaners.
“No suspicious cars here,” he said. “I glanced in the parking lot when I drove by, and I didn’t see anyone sitting in their car, but I didn’t want to drive too slowly and become conspicuous.”
They walked down a side street.
“Where’s your car?”
“At the end of the block.” He pointed.
When they reached the car, Roxy popped up, her tail wagging.
“That’s a good girl, Rox. I told you I would only be a few minutes.”
Amy got in on the passenger side, and Roxy stepped forward to look in her lap.
“In the back, girl,” Sam shouted, and they pulled away from the curb.
Sam drove through the neighborhood in an erratic pattern before making his way to the main road. Although somewhat paranoid, Sam’s actions comforted Amy. The snooper from the previous night had rattled her more than she cared to admit.
Sam’s parents lived near the foothills in Littleton in a beautiful development. As Sam slowed down and approached the house, Roxy stood up, stared out the window, and wagged her tail. Sam rolled down the window to allow her to sniff the various smells of the neighborhood.
Amy experienced some mild anxiety as they approached the door. They were about to discuss a sensitive topic, some of the more troubling aspects of which needed to be carefully guarded. Amy wanted to present the story in a way that was respectful yet honest.
Sam’s mother opened the door enthusiastically. The twinkle in Mrs. Foster’s eyes told Amy the woman might be expecting a potential girlfriend at her son’s side. Last night’s kiss could mean Sam was considering the idea as well, but Amy felt too damaged – and married – to consider a relationship of any significance. Still, she had to admit someone like Sam would be a blessing in her life.
“I’m Rhonda.” Mrs. Foster stretched out a hand.
“Amy.” She grasped the hand firmly.
“This is Ed.” Rhonda pointed to the man behind her, but between the commotion of Roxy’s enthusiastic greeting and Sam’s attempt to cross the threshold, Mr. Foster could not reach Amy, so they settled for a wave.
Rhonda led them inside to a lovely living room with a couch, two armchairs, and a glass coffee table, oddly shaped by the natural wood with which it was made. High ceilings, nature paintings, and nooks displaying vases and knickknacks gave the room an inviting appeal. The living room looked out on a backyard filled with trees and gardens. No neighbors were visible
on any side due to the high foliage. Rhonda pointed to the couch and indicated that Amy should have a seat.
“So nice to meet you, Amy.”
Roxy crossed the room and lay at Rhonda’s feet.
“You too, Rhonda.” Amy nodded. “And Ed.”
They spent a good fifteen minutes making small talk about the weather and their current projects. Amy implied she was helping with the opening of Banhi’s Grill. She didn’t go into detail about the grease or the mouse droppings.
Eventually, Sam steered the conversation in the direction of the real purpose of their visit.
“So, Mom. Amy has an interesting story. Dad.” He nodded at his father. Ed was clearly the quiet, thoughtful member of the family. Sam seemed to feel the need to make sure he wasn’t being left out. “I think you’ll find it very intriguing.”
With that, Sam turned and looked at Amy. He had dropped the ball in her court with very little warning or introduction. Caught off guard, Amy took a moment to compose herself. Everyone was looking at her.
“I’m not sure where to begin,” she said.
“You have a friend,” Sam hinted.
“I have a friend who knew your daughter.”
Rhonda shifted in her chair, but no one asked Amy to stop.
Amy felt slightly emboldened. You can do this. “My friend said that Emma made a notebook she planned to give to Sam. Apparently, she really wanted him to have it.”
Both Rhonda and Ed glanced at Sam and returned their attention to Amy.
“But the thing is, Sam knows nothing about it. And we’ve searched her desk and her books. It was supposed to be just a little thing with drawings and a couple of poems—”
“Wait,” Rhonda interrupted. “I’m confused. Why does your friend know about this notebook, and why wouldn’t Emma have just given it to her brother?”
“I think she didn’t get the chance,” Amy whispered.
Rhonda looked at Ed. He had a gentle expression in his eyes.
Sam joined in. “We thought maybe she just left it in her desk, which you know I still have, or maybe between the books, but it’s just not there.”
“Maybe she had it with her when she…” Rhonda closed her eyes and didn’t finish her sentence.
“Maybe, Mom, but we have another idea.”
“Somewhere in the house?” Ed asked. “I don’t remember finding anything in her room when we cleaned it out. I would have remembered something as sweet as poems. And we went through her things carefully before we gave them away.”
“We kept a bunch of stuff, Ed,” Rhonda said defensively.
“Yes, but I would have remembered a notebook.”
“Maybe it’s at the bottom of that jewelry box.” Mrs. Foster disappeared and returned a few minutes later with a wooden jewelry box. The conversation while she was gone was polite yet stilted. Mrs. Foster rested the jewelry box on the coffee table, and Amy helped her remove everything and look for a hidden compartment at the bottom.
“Mom, listen for a moment.”
Rhonda sat back in her chair. Clearly the conversation was exhausting her, but she tried to maintain a face of composure.
“Remember that beautiful birdhouse she made? The one we put on the maple?”
“Oh, don’t be silly. She wouldn’t put poetry at the bottom of the birdhouse. The birds would make a mess of it. She wasn’t stupid.”
“But she built the birdhouse,” Amy said. “She could have used a double back or side. Sandwiched the notebook between the boards.”
“A notebook wouldn’t fit there.”
“It’s supposed to be the size of a passport, and Emma may have hidden it,” Amy explained. “That’s what my friend remembered.”
“Who is this friend? What’s her name?”
Amy looked at Sam. Panic set in. This was the one subject she wished to avoid.
“Just someone from her math class,” Sam lied. “Brenda. Amy knew her better than Emma. You wouldn’t have met her.”
Brenda. Great. I thought we weren’t going to lie.
Rhonda shook her head and her tone turned gentle. “Sam, I know you need to process your sister’s death. You suppressed it for so long. But don’t lose yourself seeking something based on the recollections of a friend of a friend Emma barely knew.”
Amy looked away.
“No offense to you, sweet Amy. I know you’re only trying to help my son. But he needs to stay grounded. That’s the only way to get through something like this. We were catatonic for years. You have no idea what it’s like to lose a child.”
Her words assaulted Amy like a slap in the face. Amy turned and glared at Rhonda in disbelief. How dare she declare something she knew nothing about?
Rhonda sensed she had stepped into unwelcome territory. She seemed to second-guess herself but chose not to address the potential faux pas. Perhaps she feared such a discussion would bring the wounds to the surface, and the woman seemed determined to hang on to the delicate state of acceptance she had created for herself.
Ed leaned forward. “Rhonda, what can it hurt to let them look at it?”
“Dismantle the birdhouse?”
“It can be repaired and rehung,” Ed said.
“You darn well know it’s full of chickadee babies at the moment.”
“Mom,” Sam said in exasperation. “Are you really going to choose the chickadees over Emma? For years, we’ve been waiting for this.”
Rhonda glared at him. “Waiting for what? They’re innocent animals. Another mother doesn’t have to lose her babies for the sake of a notebook we don’t even know exists.”
Ed intervened. “Listen. The chicks have been there for weeks. Any day now, the family will disperse and their home will be empty. We can take it down then.”
Rhonda left the room. Before she disappeared from view, Amy saw the redness in Mrs. Foster’s eyes and the quivering of her lips. What a great first impression, Amy, she thought. Dredging up a woman’s pain. Suggesting they drive her cherished little birds from their home.
“Give her a moment,” Ed said. “I don’t think it’s an unreasonable idea. It would be so like your sister to plan such a caper. Although I’m surprised she didn’t leave you a clue.” Then he looked away. “She probably didn’t have a chance.”
Rhonda returned, composed and smiling. “I’m being silly, Sam. When the chicks leave, we can take it down. You’ve asked so little of us during your difficult times. And I was hardly there for you. I often blame myself for you quitting school and…”
“And becoming a loser,” Sam said, chuckling.
“Oh, Sammy, everyone needs to travel their own path.”
“Even if it’s a pathetic path? A waste of time?”
He stood and she gave him a loving embrace. “Nothing is a waste. Even a rudderless phase can build a man’s character.”
“You’re too kind, Mom.”
“Plus, look at you now. A doctor in training. Has anyone gotten back to you?”
“Oh, not yet.”
Mrs. Foster was frustrated. “Most of these schools start in August, early September at the latest. Someone should have gotten back to you. Did you mail your applications on time?”
He hasn’t told them, Amy realized. She stood up, crossed the room, and gave Sam a subtle look of disbelief.
Sam was squirming, clearly reluctant to lie to his mother, but determined not to share the truth. “Don’t worry, Mom. Everything will work out.”
Mrs. Foster seemed skeptical, but she let the subject drop.
Ed stood up. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”
“Let me show Amy the birdhouse first,” Rhonda said. She turned to Amy. “You’ll love it, dear.”
They went outside and approached the maple slowly. A chorus of chick-a-dee-dee-dee greeted them. Amy experienced a moment of annoyance. Brent had always called her chickadee, and he said it in a way that made it sound like an insult.
Amy took a few steps closer and noticed a little head peeking out of a faded gre
en birdhouse. It was adorable; she had to admit. She could hardly blame the birds for her poor choice in a spouse.
The birdcalls became more intense. Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee.
“Step back, dear,” Rhonda whispered. “The more dees the more threatened they feel. Someone is warning the young chick not to leave yet.”
They crept back to a decent watching place. After several minutes, the bird took flight, landed on a branch, and then returned quickly to the birdhouse.
“Ed’s right,” Rhonda whispered. She touched Amy’s arm. “They’ll be leaving shortly.”
“It’s a beautiful birdhouse,” Amy said. “We won’t destroy it. I promise.”
“I know you won’t.”
***
Their dining experience was jam-packed with conversational topics that were neutral, safe. Emma and the birdhouse were all but forgotten, an issue for another day.
Nevertheless, Sam was quite pleased with the results of their mission. The drive back was tranquil. Roxy rested in the backseat, and Sam hummed along to some retro rock station on the radio.
When they reached the Shanti Motel, he leaned over and gave Amy a real kiss. She almost recoiled, but chose instead to enjoy it for a moment. Sam tasted good, familiar almost – not like someone she ever kissed before, more like someone she ought to.
When Amy did pull away, she was confused and anxious. Yet again, the whiskey bottles under her bed called to her as if every emotion of any dimension needed to be dulled before it could be processed.
“Too soon?” Sam asked tentatively.
“No… yes. I don’t know.”
He smiled at her. “It’s okay. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I’ll call you when the chickadees fly away.” He made a whimsical flying gesture with his hands.
She laughed and touched his forearm. “Thank you for everything, Sam.”
He looked puzzled. “What have I done for you? I should be the one expressing gratitude.”
“You’ve kept me distracted. Given me an adventure to pursue. Something that might even result in a happy ending.”
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