Her nephews and niece were as taken aback to discover that the Chapmans hadn’t decorated their own tree as her own kids were to find out that their cousins had—and enjoyed it.
“But ours is like the ‘before’ version of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree compared to yours,” Rowan told Noreen with a grin. “Want to trade?”
“I’m sure it’s beautiful.”
“It’s not. It’s scrawny and the trunk is so crooked it fell over twice and we lost all of the fragile ornaments.”
“Oh no.”
“That’s what you get when you let the kids pick it out. But they made some new decorations after it fell. Remember how Mom used to have us make them when we were kids?” she added fondly. “We used cookie cutters to make the shapes out of cookie dough.”
“It was just flour, salt, and water.”
“No wonder it didn’t taste very good.” She laughed. “Yours were always perfect, and you helped the boys so theirs were, too. Mine were a mess.”
“Only because you wouldn’t let me help you.”
That was Rowan. She liked to do things her own way—usually the hard way, and the wrong way. Funny how she seems to look back on her own difficult childhood as if it were idyllic, while Noreen, whose youth seemed unblemished as it unfolded, can clearly see the flaws in retrospect.
Given Rowan’s penchant for trouble, Noreen would have predicted that her kid sister would wind up in a gutter somewhere, destitute, alone, and miserable. Too bad Mom didn’t live to see her turn herself around. Then again, if she had lived, it probably never would have happened.
It wasn’t until they were both grown women that Rowan revealed the reason she’d changed so drastically. “I promised Mom I’d behave,” she told Noreen on the long ago day when they’d met in Mundy’s Landing to clean out their childhood home after Dad died. “She was always so worried about what I was up to.”
“Because you were always up to something.”
“Exactly. She was afraid of what might happen to me if she wasn’t there to watch out for me. I had to promise her that I’d be okay. It was the only way to give her peace of mind.”
“She knew I’d have watched out for you, and so would the boys.”
“You all had your own lives by then. You and Danny were away in college, and Mitch was doing his residency in Chicago. It was just me and Dad living here after Mom died.”
“So you didn’t think I’d be there for you?”
“I wasn’t your problem,” Rowan said. “I had to grow up and learn how to be responsible for myself.”
“Well, I’m glad you did. Some people never do.”
Noreen refused to participate in guilt trips—self-inflicted, or otherwise. She’d devoted a good part of her youth to damage control on behalf of her sister, and often being mistaken for her, to the point where she’d joke about wanting to wear a badge that said, “Don’t worry, I’m the good one.”
There were times, even in adulthood, when Noreen grew weary of her own prim, holier-than-thou façade. But she was playing her role, the one her family always expected of her; the one she expected—still expects—of herself.
And all you have to do is keep it up awhile longer. No one has to know that your life has unraveled until it’s absolutely necessary—and that includes Rowan.
From the Mundy’s Landing Tribune Archives
Special Feature
January 18, 1992
Historical Society to Sponsor Second Annual Convention
The Mundy’s Landing Historical Society may be unceremoniously housed in cramped quarters in the basement of the Elsworth Ransom Library on Fulton Avenue, but crime buffs worldwide have long believed its archives hold the key to one of the most notorious unsolved murder cases of the century.
During the steamy summer of 1916, as Mundy’s Landing celebrated its sestercentennial with parades and pageantry, a serial killer was lurking. One by one, over a period of days, local families awakened to find the brutally slain corpses of young girls tucked into vacant beds in the house. In perhaps the eeriest twist of all, no one in the family—indeed, no one in town—recognized any of the victims.
Though the case was subsequently sensationalized in national headlines accompanied by composite sketches of the girls—dubbed “Sleeping Beauties”—they were never identified. Their unclaimed remains were buried in Holy Angels Cemetery, and the killings stopped just as abruptly as they’d begun. Local authorities chased a number of leads to dead ends. By the following year, as the United States entered World War I, the case faded from the public eye, though never entirely.
Theories have continued to abound over the decades, courtesy of armchair sleuths who have suspected everyone from Mundy’s Landing’s most illustrious citizens to a mysterious vagrant reportedly sighted in the area.
Last summer marked the seventy-fifth anniversary of the crimes, and Director Ora Abrams organized a historical society fund-raiser to commemorate the occasion. Her goal: to eventually move the non-profit museum into larger quarters.
“We just don’t have room to permanently display most of what we have in the archives,” she told the Tribune from her tiny, windowless office. “But the library board agreed to let us use the upstairs conference rooms to create a special convention exhibit. We weren’t certain it would draw attendance beyond our little village, but it did.”
Well beyond.
Last July’s daylong event was a success. Several weeks later, in a confluence of events, an ABC News producer happened to be visiting friends at their summer home outside Mundy’s Landing around the same time serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer was arrested in Milwaukee. Through her friends, the producer learned of the Sleeping Beauty case and visited the exhibit, where she met Ms. Abrams.
“She was absolutely fascinated by the story,” Ms. Abrams remembers, “and I wound up showing her some items from the private collection.”
While she wouldn’t elaborate, those items are rumored to have included bloodstained clothing and a number of other artifacts deemed too sensitive or too gruesome for the permanent exhibit.
The producer later returned to the village with a correspondent and television crew from the newsmagazine program 20/20. The Sleeping Beauty murders were included alongside Jack the Ripper and the Zodiac Killer in an unsolved crimes segment last fall.
According to Ms. Abrams, the resulting groundswell of interest has resulted in a drastic uptick in daily visitors at the historical society, leading her to make the fundraiser an annual event. “We see everyone from historians to detectives to even a true crime author researching a book about the case. We’ve given the public an unprecedented opportunity to try their hand at solving it.”
On New Year’s Day, she issued a press release bearing the headline: CAN YOU SOLVE THE SLEEPING BEAUTY MURDERS?
Whether that’s even possible remains to be seen, but providing access to relevant artifacts might shed additional light on the case and, at the very least, raise sorely needed funds.
Local residents who belong to Friends of the Museum can preview the special exhibit directly following the Independence Day parade and ceremonies in the Common on Thursday, July 2. It will be open to the general public July 3 through 5. Tickets can be purchased at the historical society beginning this week.
Chapter 8
Last night at Marrana’s, when Rowan somehow got it into her head that Jake was looking at her strangely, she’d almost believed he sent the box of burnt cookies himself.
What if he’d snuck into the house unexpectedly on that snowy afternoon while she was with Rick?
He wouldn’t sneak in, though. He’d have no reason to think he might be interrupting a clandestine tryst . . . or would he?
Even if he did, he couldn’t possibly have anticipated that would be the day, the moment when Rick would finally make a move.
Anyway, if
he had walked in on them, he’d have burst into the room throwing punches at Rick. That’s the kind of guy Jake is; always has been—even-keeled temperament until something drastic sets him off, and then look out. He wouldn’t have waited fourteen years to mail an anonymous package.
Still, it had a Manhattan postmark. Jake’s regional sales job occasionally takes him there. It hasn’t lately, though . . .
As far as you know.
She’s too well aware just how easy it is to make the two-hour drive to the city and later claim to have been elsewhere.
As she takes her medication, brushes her teeth, combs her hair, and throws on jeans and a sweatshirt—her own this time, not Jake’s—she tries to convince herself that the man she married would never be capable of doing something so sneaky or hurtful.
Just like he believes you’d never do anything sneaky or hurtful?
Glimpsing the stranger in the bureau mirror, she steps closer, forcing herself to take a good, hard look. Awash in guilt, she finds it difficult to even make eye contact with herself.
I don’t know her, she thinks, staring at her reflection. And I don’t like her.
It isn’t just that she still expects to see her familiar red hair. Her face looks older, etched in the shadows of worry lines and dark circles.
How is it that Jake hasn’t figured out just by looking at her that something is terribly wrong?
Maybe he has.
Remembering the way he’d studied her across the table last night, she turns away abruptly and walks over to the bed. What she wouldn’t give to crawl back under the covers and hide for the rest of the day. Not just from Jake, but from herself.
Maybe she should just tell him the truth.
She dismisses the thought before it’s even fully formed.
He might not believe that what had happened between her and Rick had stopped short of a physical affair, or that it was completely meaningless. He probably wouldn’t grasp that it had grown out of the circumstances of their lives back then; circumstances that no longer exist. She made a stupid, selfish mistake, but it’s one she would never make again. She’s older and wiser; their marriage has evolved; she loves Jake and would never . . .
She can hear herself saying all of those things to her husband as clearly as if the conversation actually took place. It isn’t difficult to imagine his response; the terrible devastation in his voice and the angry accusation in his eyes weigh on her as vividly as an ugly memory.
No. It can never happen. She’ll never tell him. She loves him too much to inflict that level of pain.
She forces herself to make the bed, same as she does every morning. Normalcy. It’s all about normalcy.
Downstairs, she steps around the box of indoor decorations Jake left near the foot of the steps, and is relieved to find Mick in the kitchen. He’s wearing a striped T-shirt with plaid shorts—shorts, in December! Stripes and plaid!—and standing in front of the open refrigerator gulping milk straight from the carton.
Ah, normalcy.
Seeing her, he hastily puts the milk carton back. “Sorry. I forgot to get a glass.”
“It’s okay.”
“It is?”
“I mean, no, it’s not okay, but . . . I’ll let it slide this time. Did you run this morning?”
“Yup.”
“Did you remember to take your medicine?”
“Yup.”
“Did you eat something with it so you won’t get an upset stomach?”
“No, I was about to.”
At too many maternal questions, a scowl begins to work its way over his freckled face, but she deftly erases it with a final one: “Want me to make some pancakes?”
“Yeah! I can eat about twenty, so make a lot.”
Rowan isn’t sure she can even choke down one.
Burnt cookies: the weight loss magic bullet. You don’t even have to eat them, and they’ll kill your appetite for a full week.
Jake appears with the Sunday paper in its blue plastic bag from the foot of the driveway. As usual, Mick promptly asks to see the sports section. As usual, Jake reminds him that the paper has been sitting outside since dawn and that Mick was perfectly capable of retrieving it then.
“Come on, Dad. That’s not fair. You read all those other sections, too. I just want to check the Knicks score from last night.”
“They lost.”
“Yeah, no kidding. Let me—”
“You can have the sports section when I’m done with it. Here, help yourself to one of those other sections. Maybe you’ll learn something. And by the way—what time did you come in last night?”
“Around twelve, give or take.”
“Give or take a few hours?”
“No! A few minutes.”
“Don’t lie to me, Mick.”
“I’m not! I told you I was home. You must not have heard me.”
Standing at the stove, listening to the predictable rhythm of their testosterone-fueled argument, Rowan finds herself breathing a little easier.
For now, anyway.
Running late, with a pounding hangover headache, Rick takes the PATH train into Manhattan at noon.
He’d lied to Rowan on Friday night when he’d said his schedule was wide open this weekend. In reality, he had—has—plans for Sunday brunch with his closest friend in the world. He’d have canceled if today had been his only opportunity to reconnect with Rowan, but as it turned out, he didn’t have to.
That’s good, because he really needs someone to talk to right now, and Bob Belinke is one of the few people he trusts.
They met in kindergarten back in their hometown Appleton, Wisconsin, and bonded—rather, clashed—when they both wanted to play with the same toy plane at recess. Bob was equally obsessed with all things aviation-related, and they both wanted to become pilots when they grew up.
Bob learned to fly at sixteen, had his private license at eighteen, went to Aeronautical University, went to work for the FAA as an air traffic controller in Illinois, Oklahoma, and Kansas, and even owned his own plane, while Rick . . .
Well, at least someone’s dream came true.
Bob retired to Florida over a decade ago, but he’s an avid traveler and pops up in New York every so often. This weekend, he’s on an overnight layover on his way home from Scotland and England, and he’d e-mailed Rick last week to see if he was free.
It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you, he wrote. I worry. How are you doing on your own?
On his own—he’s always been on his own. Even when he and Vanessa were still married and going through the motions of supporting each other, they lived separate lives. He felt more alone in their relationship than he has since it ended with her death.
But he wrote back to Bob simply Hanging in there, and arranged to meet today at the same diner where he wound up meeting Rowan yesterday.
It’s near Bob’s hotel and the PATH station and—most important—it’s affordable. He hasn’t told Bob about his recent layoff. He hasn’t told anyone, even the kids. With two in college, bills stacking up, and Vanessa’s life insurance settlement still in limbo, Rick isn’t going to be brunching at the Peninsula anytime soon.
Walking in, he spots Bob sitting a booth away from the one he and Rowan shared only twenty-four hours ago. The same waitress is handling the section. What was her name? Bertrice? Beatrice?
She spots him heading to the table and waves, cheerfully busting his chops: “What, are you a stalker or something?”
“Only for you—” He can see her name tag now. “—Bernice.”
Standing to greet him with a warm handshake, Bob asks if he’s a regular here.
“This weekend I am,” he replies, thinking no one in the restaurant is going to mistake Bob for a regular. He’s wearing a bright blue polo shirt and has
the tanned, relaxed vibe that may be de rigueur in Florida but is rarely seen in New York City.
There was a time, not long after they were married, when Rick imagined himself and Vanessa living that life someday. It was a short-lived fantasy. Even if they had stayed together—even if they could have afforded for Vanessa to retire and she’d been willing to move South—the lifestyle would never have suited her.
“Can you see me on a golf course, wearing a visor and Lilly Pulitzer?” she’d asked, wrinkling her nose when he brought it up. “All that pastel. I could never.”
“You don’t have to dress like that. It’s not in the Florida rulebook.”
“I bet there is a Florida rulebook and it comes with coupons for bug repellent and early bird specials.”
“Why do you hate Florida so much?”
Why do you hate everything?
Ignoring the question he’d asked, Vanessa added, as if to answer the one he hadn’t asked: “And the sun. I hate the sun. I burn and I freckle.”
Rick had to bite his tongue to keep from saying he likes freckles.
With Vanessa, he had to bite his tongue to keep from saying a lot of things.
It wasn’t healthy. A lot of marriages aren’t. Some survive anyway, but most end in some kind of heartache, Rick thinks glumly as he throws his jacket on the hook beside the booth and slides onto the bench.
“You’re looking good,” he tells Bob.
“So are you.”
“Yeah, right.” Rick is well aware that the return compliment is perfunctory. He looks about as great as he feels today.
“I like your shirt.”
“Now you’re really laying on the bull.”
“What? I like your shirt. Why is that bull?”
“Because men don’t say they like each other’s shirts.”
“They do when they’ve rooted for the same team together all their lives. I thought you wore that just for me.”
Looking down, Rick sees the familiar Green Bay Packers logo, grins, and nods. Might as well let Bob think he’s wearing this T-shirt in honor of their shared hometown, which is only a half-hour drive from Lambeau Field, as opposed to it being the only clean item of clothing in his drawer.
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