Freefall

by Robin Brande

  Eliza had bent every ear around her for months after Jamey died, but she knew that even her dearest friends and her supportive family had their limits. No one wants to be around someone who cries all the time—a little goes a long way. Eliza learned to temper herself—to keep things breezy and light, to avoid certain topics that were sure to set her off—and then wait until she was alone with her journal pages to pour out the mean, ugly, pathetic truth.

  She knew before she set pen to paper exactly who her topic would be that morning. She had already lost sleep over him last night. But first she needed to warm up, to dawdle.

  Another cold morning, but sunny. Underslept. Got the column off just now. Maybe go to the bookstore later today? Get a copy of John Steinbeck’s journal. Maybe get a haircut?

  Eliza searched the window for the first rays of morning. She stood, stretched, refilled her coffee. Daisy dozed on the couch—her sentry shift had not yet begun.

  Eliza curled up on the couch again and rambled for another paragraph or two before finally acknowledging what was on her mind.

  All right, he was cute—I admit it. But so what? The world is full of cute men. So what are you afraid of? Everything. Sex. Falling in love. Feeling guilty. Upsetting Hildy. Even though she claims she wants me to date, I know it would kill her to see me fall in love with someone else. Back to sex—not ready at all. I don’t even know where the parts go anymore. I embrace my new virginity. Let’s leave it at that.

  Okay, so what’s the worst that can happen?

  I take him up on his offer and go out to dinner some time. We laugh, I like him, he takes me home, I pause before opening the car door, he leans over, kisses me. Good? Bad? Probably good. But then what? Second date, isn’t he expecting more? You like him, it’s going well, then you’re some place and you’re naked and—

  Eliza closed her eyes to imagine it. She had tried this once before, envisioning herself with a friend of one of her brothers who kept asking her out last year, but she couldn’t get very far in the daydream without running into this same barrier.

  —you see Jamey. You’re thinking of him. You remember how he looked and smelled and laughed and kissed you and made love to you.

  “Forget it,” Eliza told the dog. She closed her notebook and gave Daisy some attention. She stroked the terrier’s ears and waited for enough light to walk. It would be a long walk this morning, she decided. She needed to numb herself with the cold.

  * * *

  The dog huffed up the hill. The previous afternoon’s sunshine had melted much of the snow. The flowers would have their chance again to prove it really was spring.

  Eliza pondered her options. She had told herself when she moved there that she would stay only through the end of the year. If Hildy seemed to be getting along—plenty of friends, a thriving business, sturdy health—Eliza might consider coming home even sooner. Even after only a few weeks she was already homesick. She missed her family. She missed her normal life.

  But she still knew she had done the right thing by coming. The thought of Hildy rebuilding her life alone filled Eliza with the kind of emptiness she felt in the first weeks after Jamey died. Maybe Hildy was hardier, or maybe it was different when you watched your husband deteriorate over the years. Maybe Hildy wouldn’t have those nights of anguish over being left alone after so many days and nights with the man she loved.

  In any case, eight months—or maybe only six—seemed a reasonable commitment. Eliza felt fortunate that she could do her work from anywhere, and had: mountaintop cabins, tents, hotel rooms. A few months’ retreat to Jamey’s childhood home might be just what she needed to find her way again.

  Snow crystals shimmered in the morning light. Eliza paused at the edge of the meadow to take in the cold serenity of the place. Her breath fogged her sunglasses.

  “Shall we try the lake today?”

  Daisy pulled toward the right.

  “Not this time, evil beast.” Eliza asserted her weight and dragged the dog after her toward the left.

  The trail markers promised a three-mile walk to the lake, where Eliza could then link into another path and circle the water for several more miles. She’d warned Hildy it would be a long one, and Hildy reminded her the dog might not be up for it.

  “I’ll take my pack,” Eliza said. “I can carry her if I have to.”

  “You really think Daisy will stand for a pack?”

  Eliza envisioned trying to load the thrashing dog. “Well, maybe not.”

  “If you’re home by ten you can come to Monarch with me,” Hildy told her. “I’ve got some shopping to do.”

  So Eliza had agreed to shorten the walk, all for the sake of setting eyes on a town Hildy described as “the snootiest place you’ve ever seen.”

  Eliza liked snooty. She liked to dress a place down by showing up in jeans and a T-shirt. It was one of the things Jamey claimed to love about her, that she dressed however she wanted to, as comfortably as she wanted to, no matter what the occasion. Eliza wondered what he would have thought of her widow’s wardrobe. Jamey always hated her in black.

  Eliza and the dog had just turned back and were heading home when Eliza saw two familiar figures in the distance, running down the trail toward them.

  “Great. Try not to kill him this time, will you?”

  As the jogger and his dog came closer, Eliza drew Daisy off the trail beside a wild rose bush and waited for them to pass.

  Some habits are hard to resist, Eliza realized, and her southwestern friendliness was one of them. “Morning.”

  Daisy didn’t even try to resist her own habit. She snarled and lunged at the Lab. Eliza jerked the leash. “Daisy—”

  The man nodded once and kept on running without saying a word. Eliza’s greeting hung uncomfortably in the air.

  “Pompous ass,” Eliza muttered once he was out of earshot.

  Daisy barked once more for emphasis.

  “Making friends,” Eliza complimented herself and the dog. “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  “So Monarch is a town, right?” Eliza asked, looking out the car window at the Victorian houses and fancy shops they passed.

  “Right,” said Hildy.

  “And you—we—live in Careyville, which is a village in the town of Monarch?”

  “Right. And there’s both a village and a town of Monarch.”

  Eliza shook her head. “This is all too complicated. And they’re all suburbs of the city of Syracuse?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you people keep it all straight?”

  Hildy shrugged. “It’s what you know.” She pointed to the right. “There’s where the fanciest houses are, up that street. Should we go look?”

  “Sure.” Eliza felt relaxed, having turned in her work for the week. Now she was on her own time.

  Hildy eased the sedan up the hill. The posted speed limit of twenty made it perfect for gawking. The houses were refined and enormous, with skillfully arranged lawns, sheltering trees, and perfect, orderly flower beds.

  “That’s Suzy Walsh’s house, I think,” Hildy said. “She’s Teddy and Davey’s sister. Different last name now—forgot what it is.”

  “Who’s the oldest?”

  “Davey, then Suzy, then Teddy.”

  “What’s Suzy like?”

  “She was a nice girl. Haven’t seen her in a long time. Who knows, maybe she’s as stuck up as Davey now. But Teddy’s the sweet one—probably because he was the baby.”

  Eliza knew many youngest siblings who were anything but sweet, but she didn’t feel like arguing the point. She was more curious about the Walshes at the moment, and whether any of them would be worth interviewing for her book.

  “Was David a friend of Jamey’s?” she asked.

  “Not really. He came around sometimes with Teddy, but he wasn’t really in Jamey’s group.”

  “But Ted was?”

  “On and off. Look there.” Hildy pointed out a white three-story with dark green trim. “That used to be Luc
y Greaves’s place—stuck up old witch. I catered a party for her once, and she complained the whole time, even though her guests loved every single thing I made. Then I had to send my bill three times before she finally paid it. Then she deducted ten percent because she said the sandwiches were soggy. Old hag.”

  Eliza laughed. “No, how do you really feel?”

  “There are rich people who know how to make good use of their money, and then there are the ones like Lucy Greaves who hate to part with a penny of it, even if someone deserves it. She’s pretty stingy with her compliments, too—like telling me something was good would kill her or something. I swear I’d never cater a party for that old hag again no matter how much she promised to pay me. It isn’t worth it.”

  They had reached the end of the block. “Do you want to see more, or should we go back down?”

  “I’ve seen enough. Is there a bookstore around? I wouldn’t mind looking for a few things.”

  “Sure. It’s close to the fabric store. I’ll drop you off and come find you when I’m done. Will half an hour be long enough?”

  “Or longer, if you need it. I can entertain myself.”

  Eliza entered the bookstore and immediately smelled the coffee. She would save that pleasure for the end. Back in Henderson that had been her treat: to browse for as long as she wanted, then take her selections into the adjoining café and savor good coffee and something new to read.

  She headed for the magazine rack first. She had written a quiz for a girls’ magazine, and wondered if the issue was on the shelf yet. She found it—noting with satisfaction that her quiz was highlighted on the cover—and turned toward the biography aisle to search for the John Steinbeck journal she had read about in the introduction to East of Eden, which she had just finished reading before the move.

  When Eliza loved a book, she loved it all the way, and wanted to know as much about it as possible. She hoped Steinbeck’s journal would help her understand how he wrote such a rich, textured story. Maybe that, in turn, would teach her how to do it herself.

  Not finding the journal on the shelf, Eliza settled for special ordering it. She paid for her magazine, bought her coffee, and sat at a table ready to enjoy reading her own quiz. She always loved seeing what photos and illustrations the various magazines paired with her articles. It made her feel like she was part of a creative team, even if she never met the artists.

  Another customer had come into the café. Eliza didn’t recognize him at first, but something about the way he carried himself and spoke to the young woman behind the counter caught Eliza’s attention. Ever since her days of waitressing, she was alert for rude customers.

  The owner of the black Lab wasn’t rude, exactly, just cold and direct. “No, I said non-fat.” The barista emptied the cup and began again. “To the top this time, please,” he directed her.

  Eliza and Hildy both hated bad manners—especially if the person was wealthy. “They can afford charm school,” Hildy liked to say.

  With his back to her, Eliza had the chance to study him: In his mid-thirties, with short blond hair that looked like it was growing out of a buzz—the kind you want to bristle your hand over to see if the stubble hurts. Nice sturdy form from all those miles running. Not a bad profile.

  He wore dark olive slacks, brown loafers, and a button-down shirt under a navy crewneck sweater. He checked his watch and turned toward the rest of the store.

  Eliza dove behind her magazine.

  As he walked toward her table, Eliza wished she weren’t hiding behind Adventure Girl. For once she wished she were reading Smithsonian.

  Why? Eliza chided herself. Why should you have to impress him? She straightened in her chair, fully prepared to defend her selection: “Yes, I read Adventure Girl—so what? They happen to have great quizzes in here.”

  But he walked right by her. Eliza slouched again, knowing the rest of her relaxation had been ruined. She drank the last of her coffee, tossed the cup in the trash, and went outside to wait for Hildy.

  Within a few minutes Hildy drove up in front of the store and Eliza opened the door.

  “Oh, look,” Hildy said, nodding her head toward the bookstore door.

  Eliza turned. Her jogger was just emerging.

  Eliza scooted into the car. “Let’s go.”

  “Hold on, I should say hello.”

  “Say hello?”

  Hildy had already rolled down Eliza’s window. “Davey!” The man looked up, confused, and Hildy waved. “David!”

  Eliza slumped down in her seat. “Please don’t—”

  He stepped up closer to the side of the car and peered in.

  “Hi, Davey, it’s Hilda Shepherd—remember? Jamey’s mother.”

  David Walsh nodded vaguely. “Oh, yes...” He glanced at Eliza, then back at Hildy. Eliza slumped down even further and shielded half her face with her hand.

  “I was supposed to meet with you yesterday,” Hildy continued, “but they said you had a meeting or something.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “So I met with Teddy instead, which was fine.”

  Hildy’s accent had never sounded so thick. Eliza wondered if it was like cell phone service—the signal was stronger the closer you were to the receiver towers. Maybe being back in New York brought it out in full force.

  “Did he tell you we’re doing the opening?” Hildy said.

  “No.” David glanced at his watch. He had not looked at Eliza again since that first moment—much to her relief.

  “Well, it was nice seeing you,” Hildy said with a wave. “We’ll see you next Friday.”

  “Go,” Eliza murmured. “Just go.”

  “Bye now.” Hildy waved again and finally inched the car forward.

  “A little faster?” Eliza prodded. When they were finally a distance away, Eliza exhaled audibly. “Oh, brother.”

  “See what I mean?” Hildy said. “Stuck up. Did you see how he wouldn’t even look at me when I was talking to him? I don’t know how Teddy turned out so good. Their parents must have spent all their charm school money on him.”

  Eliza was still processing the information. “That’s David Walsh? He’s who we’re working for next week?”

  “Not that you’d know it—can’t be bothered to meet with me. I’m sure he didn’t have a meeting yesterday. Look at him—it’s nearly eleven o’clock and he’s still out getting coffee for himself. Why doesn’t he buy coffee at Walsh’s? Is he too good for his own store?”

  While Hildy continued her rant, Eliza imagined what it would be like to work for the man. “No, I said non-fat,” and it was the way he said it that bothered her: short, clipped, irritated. She hadn’t come to the opposite end of the country just to be mistreated by some New York suburb richie.

  “Hildy, I’d be happy to help you cook for next Friday, but I’d really prefer not serving.”

  “What? Why not? Come on—you know we always have fun together.”

  “I know, but...I really don’t like doing it. It’s embarrassing—I’m terrible at it.”

  “You’re wonderful. I couldn’t do it without you. It’ll be over before you know it. Come on—I’m not taking no.”

  “That’s the guy,” Eliza explained. “The one whose dog Daisy tried to kill.”

  Hildy gave a hearty laugh. “Good for her!”

  “Hildy, I’m serious.” But soon Eliza, too, cracked a smile. “I really don’t like him.”

  “So you’ll stick your finger in his mashed potatoes. Don’t worry about it. Trust me, this gala is the kind of thing you’re going to want to write about some day. I wouldn’t let you miss it if you paid me.”

  “I have the feeling David Walsh may be my Lucy Greaves.”

  “Don’t worry, honey,” Hildy assured her. “He won’t bother us—Teddy won’t let him. We’ve got that boy wrapped around our fingers.”

  5

  The next morning, Eliza walked down to the Jackson house. Carolyn Jackson answered the door and motioned Eliza inside.


  “Yes...okay…” She pinched the phone between her cheek and shoulder and scribbled on a napkin. “Okay, I’ll do that. Thanks a lot.” She hung up and rolled her eyes. “Girls’ Club. I’m co-leader this year, and I swear I’ve never worked this hard.”

  Eliza followed Carolyn upstairs to the living room. The layout was similar to Hildy’s house: all the primary living areas upstairs, the laundry and family room downstairs.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Coffee would be nice,” Eliza answered. Her hair was still wet from her post-walk shower.

  Carolyn’s kitchen was long and narrow, with a half wall and shutters separating it from the living room. The shutters were open.

  “Go ahead and sit in the living room. As you can see, I’ve got a project going on the table.”

  Eliza fingered the layers of fleece in various colors and patterns stacked on the corner of the dining room table. In the center of the table was a thick plastic sheet for measuring and cutting fabric. A yard of pink fleece with a gray and blue paw print pattern lay on top of the cutting sheet.

  “We’re making blankets,” Carolyn explained. “In Girls’ Club. Have you ever seen these?” She brought Eliza a mug of coffee. “Whoops, cream or sugar?”

  “A little milk, please.”

  Carolyn doubled back to the refrigerator. “They’re no-sew blankets. You put two pieces of fleece together, cut half a square off the corners, then cut strips along all the sides. Then all the girls have to do is tie knots. It’s the greatest project I’ve ever seen. I wish they’d had it when I was a girl. I’ve already made about five of them for our house.”

  “Are these for you, too?”

  “No, we’re donating them to a children’s shelter for Easter,” Carolyn said. “My co-leader and I split them up, so I only have to cut twenty pairs. Only,” she added for emphasis. “It’s killing me. My hand keeps seizing up.”