And every single one of them stamped RETURN TO SENDER.
I opened one of the envelopes, mailed a few months before Mom’s death, and held the letter a little away from my body as if to buffer myself against the pain. Circling Christie with my arm. And I skimmed the lines with pinched breath, afraid of what I might read.
Her tomatoes were growing… roses blooming…
That…that’s it? I snatched the paper closer in surprise. No more sob stories? No guilt trips?
Stella’s blue-ribbon lemon pie at the county fair…a bald guy…somebody’s broken wrist in a cast…a blind student who got a job as a computer programmer…
I released my breath in relief at such innocuous topics. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps Mom’s desperate attempts at reuniting were a thing of the past, and by the time she’d mailed me this letter, she’d accepted our differences—our unreconciled lives—and moved on.
“How do I say it?” she had written on the first page, her letters large and flourished. “How do I tell you I’m sorry for the past, all of it? The lost moments and lost days? The words I wish I could take back like a rash promise, made hastily and then regretted?”
My stomach fell in a sick drop, like when I stood at the top of Tokyo Tower. Looking down over a thousand lights below and gripping the rail with white fingers.
Please come to Virginia. I’ve found a new life here, in a hundred different ways that I can’t explain on silent, one-sided paper, and I’d like to share it with you. To ask your forgiveness and start again, perhaps, as new people. New people who share by some mystery, under the skin of our many differences and years apart, the same blood.
Christie whined and climbed into my lap, her toenails slipping on the smooth fabric of my dark gray dress pants, and nuzzled my chin. She lapped at my cheek with her wet tongue, and I hugged her back—my arms barely fitting around her big-puppy body. Her fuzzy chest rose and fell against mine.
I shifted Christie slightly so her cold nose and snout wouldn’t stain my shirtsleeve then straightened the paper.
I must tell you I’m not feeling so well these days, Shiloh. I’m worried. Not only about my headaches and dizziness, which I can’t seem to get rid of, but about you. We haven’t talked in a long time, and there are some things I must tell you, even if you don’t want to speak to me. Things you need to know because…
I couldn’t read anymore. Instead I folded up the letter and tucked it inside the envelope, as if laying my old bitterness to rest. Wrapped in a silent paper coffin.
I chewed on my lip as I leafed through the rest of the envelope, finding an eclectic mix of stuff, so like Mom: a gospel tract about success coming from God, a snapshot of Mom and Faye both clad in jeans and holding up a gigantic fish, and a penciled recipe for jalapeno-cheese grits.
Grits. Of all things—at a moment like this. When an unexpected foreboding lurked in the dim corners of my brain. Making my breath pinch faster and faster in a worried muddle.
Headaches. Dizziness.
I pressed cold fingers to my lips, remembering our old arguments. Shouts. “You’ll be the death of me!” she’d mumbled, twisting off the top of her medicine bottle. Blood-pressure medicine, that is. A new dosage.
She’d never needed it before.
Before I could close the trunk, my eyes fell on a stack of stapled white sheets. And I drew back in shock at the black type: AUGUSTA COUNTY MEDICAL CENTER.
Mom’s medical records.
I couldn’t think. Couldn’t see the medical reports, which showed her spiking blood pressure the last year of her life. Right when I’d started returning all her letters.
I jammed it all back into the trunk and latched the lid, picking up Christie and marching out the side door to the deck. Cell phone and Mom’s medical records under one arm.
Rose blooms shivered around me in a riot of white and red. The sprinkler swished water in silvery sheets, like my pent-up tears. And as I stared down into a whorl of scarlet petals, an odd correlation began to form in my mind.
I’m mistaken. There’s no way that’s possible. I rested a shaky elbow on the deck railing as I glanced over the sheaf of medical documents again, barely feeling the hot sun as I dialed Meg on my cell phone.
“Hey, why are you calling the office on your afternoon off, Jacobs?” she blurted into my ear. “Go do something. Relax.”
“I will, but…I have a question first.” The wind rustled the rose bushes, and a sprinkle of red petals sifted to the mulched flower bed. “What’s the name of Amanda’s doctor?”
“Which Amanda?” She paused. “The one who disappeared? I thought you weren’t doing that case.”
My mouth turned dry. “Just…can you find it in the file? I think I remember seeing his name.”
I heard the rustling of papers as Meg leafed through the folder then a crackle of static as she came back on the line. “Paul Geissler,” she said. “But why’s it so important?”
I gripped the side of the railing, feeling shaky. “He was Mom’s doctor, too.”
Chapter 5
Christieeee!” I cupped my hands around my mouth and hollered, making two women on the park bench turn and frown.
“I told you not to use that leash!” Adam ran his hand through his short, sandy hair in frustration, pushing aside some wet bushes and poking underneath. “It always comes loose.”
“Well, what do you expect me to do? Buy a new one? With what money?” I looped the empty leash around my wrist and stalked across the sidewalk by Gypsy Hill Park’s duck pond. Two swans glided away from me, orange beaks turned up in silent mockery.
“I gave you money to buy a leash!” Adam called back, letting the bushes go and flinging droplets.
“And I had to use it to pay the light bill! I told you that.”
“Then you shouldn’t have brought her here this afternoon.”
“And leave her stuffed in my laundry room the rest of the day?”
“Of course not! Drop her off at Faye and Earl’s—or at our place, even. Todd loves to take care of her. But you can’t keep letting her run off like this!” Adam let out an angry sigh.
“I’m not letting her. She just takes off!” I put my hands on my hips, feeling anything but belated birthday joy as anger heated my cheeks. “And don’t start on the roses again. I have no idea who sent them.”
“What?” Adam spun around, his normally calm and sober blue eyes flashing.
“This is what this whole thing is about, isn’t it?” I faced him. “You’re upset over nothing. It’s a florist’s mistake.”
He crossed his arms stiffly then turned and looked out over the pond. Shredded willow fronds floated on the surface, broken by the rain.
I waited until an elderly couple shuffled by, tossing duck feed to some fluffy goslings. Then I stalked over to Adam’s side. He didn’t look up.
I attempted to temper my voice, thinking of those old letters in Mom’s trunk and so many words I shouldn’t have spoken. “The flower thing’s not my fault, okay?”
“Is that what you think?” Adam turned to face me, his jaw set angrily. “That I’m blaming you? And overreacting about some flowers? I’m not.” He shook his head and looked away. “It’s just…weird, okay?”
“Well, how do you think I feel? In case you were wondering, I—”
“Hold on.” Adam grabbed my arm and pushed past me. “I think I saw… There’s Christie! Over there! I’ll get her.” He scrambled off the concrete sidewalk that skirted the duck pond and then leaped across the little stream that twisted through too-green grass. The rain had splintered into golden afternoon sun, glistening moist on thick leaves and turning the neatly mown grounds to ruddy sparkles. Adam jumped over three indignant mallards and scooted up the shallow embankment then took off through the dogwoods.
“Great. Now everything’s my fault,” I crabbed, trotting after him in my strappy shoes. One heel punched into the soft earth and came up covered with mud. “Everywhere I go Christie runs off, and I’m supposed to fix
her. Fix my life. Fix everything.” I fumed silently a minute, wishing I could throttle whoever sent me that stupid bouquet. Please. Couldn’t everybody give me one moment of peace?
Even Adam. I scrubbed my muddy heel, wondering why things always had to be complicated. I mean, not always. Just…more often than I’d like.
He could be weird and stuffy, and super stubborn. Just last week we’d had a big argument over our honeymoon spot, of all things! I’d found the perfect hotel package online—if we signed up during the discount period—for a reduced-rate week in Virginia Beach. “Morning Sun,” they called it. The photos looked great, and the prices were even better.
But Adam shot it down. Told me the deal sounded suspicious, and I didn’t know Virginia Beach well enough.
I told him he didn’t know me well enough. Or how to move fast on a bargain.
I leaned my head back against the tree, remembering the way he’d looked at me when he asked me to marry him. Fishing pole in his lap and eyes holding back tears.
And I, a sucker for his sacrificial heart and against-the-grain simplicity (which drove me nuts sometimes, and not in a good way) could only sob out a yes. Even though he drove a pickup truck and hauled mulch. Even though he lived in rundown, redneck Staunton, Virginia. And even though he proposed while fishing.
Good thing Kyoko back in Japan hadn’t seen Adam’s romantic setup or the orange-feathered lure sticking out of his tackle box when he popped the question. She regularly voiced worries that, after veering so far off my big-city journalism course, I’d turn into double-wide-trailer material.
And now that same worry churned inside me again like one of those ducks on the mirror-smooth pond, head under the surface and feet paddling in vain circles: Maybe she’s right. Maybe I moved too fast, and Adam and I are too different. Too…
Wait a second. I leaned forward, straining at something by a picnic table. Did I see…?
“Christie?” I pushed off the tree as her smoky snout turned toward me, tail wagging at the sound of my voice. “What are you doing over there? Adam went after you that way.” I looked over my shoulder in the direction he’d gone, and seeing no one, threw up my hands in frustration and sprinted after her through the beaded grass.
“Christie! Get back here!” I dodged maple and beech trees as she sprinted off again, her still-fuzzy puppy mouth laughing in openmouthed joy. “This isn’t funny! If you think I’m—”
I didn’t finish my sentence because someone stepped around the side of a towering oak, making me blurt out a scream of surprise. I swerved. My heel snagged on a root and down I went. Elbows first, sliding to a stop on the wet lawn. Smearing dirt all down my chic, red-flowered dress. Soggy grass and stray bark particles stuck to my stomach like one of Tim’s shaggy, leaf-covered hunting coats.
I tried to get to my feet and slipped again then clawed my way up by the tree trunk and practically bowled over one very horrified Ray Floyd. Who rushed to help me up.
“Mr. Floyd?” I gasped, wiping my palms on my soiled dress. I stuck one hand out in an awkward handshake, reaching down to pat Ginger on the end of her leash. She blinked blond eyelashes up at me in a friendly smile.
“Sorry,” I coughed, knees still smarting. “I didn’t mean to run over you.” Hello? SUV? What was I thinking? “I mean, I didn’t see you,” I covered quickly, straightening my red ribbon headband that had slid askew.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Ray reached out to steady my arm, but I’d already righted myself. “Yeah. I’m fine, thanks.” I rubbed my sore elbow and stuck my foot back in my shoe, which had flung itself across the grass. So much for playing the cool journalist now. “But my dog…” I strained over my shoulder to see. “Forget it. She’s gone again. At least yours stays put. Right, Ginger?” I reached down to pat her silky-smooth back.
Ray tipped his curly brown head. “Sorry. I’m trying to remember…. You’re that reporter, aren’t you?”
“Shiloh Jacobs.” I flicked a leaf off my dress. “I interviewed you the night that SUV came through your bedroom wall.”
“Oh.” Ray closed his eyes. “I remember now. Jacobs.” He put his hands in his baggy pants pockets and rocked back on his heels, giving a wry laugh. “Wow. Talk about bad timing on that one. I should have stayed up and finished my movie rather than going to bed, huh?”
“On the contrary. I’d say you had pretty good timing. You’re still alive.” I started to remind him of what might have happened if he’d raised his head another six inches then thought better of it. “So what are you doing here?”
“Here at the park? I live right over there. Remember?” Ray gestured through the trees toward his green-slatted house with its cozy, wreath-trimmed front door. Wooden shutters. Burgundy Volvo in the driveway. He squinted at me through artsy, retro-style glasses. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Sorry.” I attempted a laugh. “It’s just been a long day.”
Shouts mingled from across the grass, then voices, a dog’s cheerful bark, and Adam’s long laugh. I relaxed, resting my arm against the tree in relief. “Whew. He got her.” I shielded my eyes against orange rays of sun. “You don’t want another dog by any chance, do you?” I joked.
Ray chuckled as Adam strode across the park toward us, Christie triumphantly wrapped in his arms. Her pink tongue licking his cheek in ridiculous enthusiasm. She was big now, and leggy.
I shot Adam a grateful smile then turned back to Ray. “Anyway, it’s good we met because I’ve been thinking since the interview, and I wanted to ask you one more question. If you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Shoot.” He unclipped Ginger’s leash and—wonder of wonders—left her there as she obediently sniffed under some leaves and wagged her tail. No frantic races across the park. No chewed leashes or punctured shoes.
Maybe I should trade Christie for a schnauzer.
I scrubbed some leaves off the bottom of my shoe, feeling silly for bringing it up. “You haven’t had any other unusual incidents, have you? Like maybe…phone calls? Packages? From someone you don’t know?”
Ray thought a moment, pressing his index finger to his lips.
“Phone calls? Well, maybe a couple. Hang ups, mainly. Probably telemarketers. Why?”
I sucked in my breath, warning myself not to jump to conclusions. “Anything else?”
Ray narrowed his eyes behind his rectangular glasses. “There is one thing. A letter. I got a letter the other day that makes no sense.”
“What did it say? Do you still have it?”
My questions must have poured out a little too quickly because Ray paused, one eyebrow raised. “What’s the big deal about a strange letter? It’s probably just a reference to some old joke I’d forgotten about. I threw it away. From one of my piano students, probably. Doesn’t everybody get unusual messages from time to time?”
The roses. I tensed, brushing leaves off my sleeve and avoiding his eyes. “It happens, I guess. But…not normally. No.”
I looked over at Adam, who was striding under a thicket of lush elms, their emerald leaves shimmering against a blue-gray sky. Tiny gossamer insects hovered in a patch of glowing sun.
“Can you tell me what the letter said?” I shielded my eyes again as I faced Ray.
But Ray had paled. He sucked in his breath and took a weak step backward.
“Are you okay?” I reached out a timid hand.
“I’m fine. Just…yeah. Fine.” He managed a smile as Adam caught up with us, out of breath.
“Adam. Thanks.” I squeezed his arm briefly then took wiggly Christie and held her warm body against my chest, regretting—for a split second—that I’d offered her to Ray. “This is my fiancé, Adam Carter. Adam, Ray Floyd. You probably saw his house in the paper this week.”
Ray murmured a polite “how-do-you-do” and shook Adam’s hand, but his face remained clammy white. When he reached up to straighten his glasses, his fingers shook.
“What’s wrong?” I exchanged glances with Adam
. “Did I ask something too personal?”
“No. Sorry.” Ray ran a hand over his sweaty forehead. “It’s just that the letter had…never mind. It’s silly.”
“What did it say, Ray?” Despite the frost that had previously chilled our words, I felt Adam move a step closer to me.
“Well, something odd like, ‘You’re next.’ But I can’t figure out what it means.” Before I could even move or gasp, Ray had opened his mouth to speak again. “But that’s not the weirdest part. I saw his picture in the letter.”
“Whose picture?”
“His.” And Ray gestured with his head toward Adam Carter.
Chapter 6
I drew back in surprise, banging into a thick maple limb. Christie took advantage of the pause to attempt a freedom dive, legs scrambling. But Adam caught her and anchored his fingers around her collar.
“Excuse me—you saw my what in the letter?” Adam turned his face to avoid Christie’s exuberant tongue.
“Your picture. Drawing. In… I don’t know. Charcoal or something. What’s your name again?”
“Adam,” he stammered. “Adam Carter. I used to be a landscaper around here, but I don’t remember…” He stepped back and tilted his head at Ray as if trying to recall the face, then drawing a blank.
“Charcoal?” I yelped, swiveling my head between the two of them as I untangled Christie’s teeth from Adam’s polo shirt.
“Maybe not charcoal. It had color, so it must be those…what do you call them? Pastels? Kind of smeary-grainy stuff like artists use.”
“It sounds like pastels, I guess, but how could somebody have possibly drawn Adam’s face? Do you still have the letter?”
“No. I threw it away. Maybe it’s a weird coincidence, but it looked exactly like him. The way his hair’s cut, and…” He gestured and then passed a shaky hand over his forehead. “It’s strange, I’ll admit. I’m sure one of my students decided to play a prank or something. Maybe somebody who…knows you?” He glanced up at Adam. “No. That doesn’t make sense. And neither does ‘you’re next.’ ”
'Til Grits Do Us Part Page 6