by Karen White
Lifting the mat, she found the key, then studied the directions Heather had texted her before disarming the security alarm. She stepped through the door into a huge great room and stood there for a few moments, taking in the tall ceilings and the sweeping staircase, the marble floors and the beautiful art on the walls. Leaving her suitcase, Merilee closed the doors and moved forward through the house to the wall of windows that overlooked a stone patio and, beyond that, the Atlantic Ocean. She opened a set of French doors and left them open, wanting the house to be filled with the salt-drenched air, which seemed to wrap her in its arms and tell her everything was going to be okay.
She explored the house, relieved that she didn’t have to decide on a bedroom, because there were two master suites on the main floor, one just as luxurious and huge as the other, and both with French doors leading onto the balcony. She picked the one without the toiletries in the bathroom, assuming that was Heather and Dan’s room.
Kicking off her shoes, she found the remote for the all-house stereo and plugged in her phone to stream Pandora before heading to the kitchen. She’d stopped being wowed and impressed by the time she’d entered the kitchen, because it was all too overwhelming. No detail or convenience had been spared, and the kitchen was so beautiful and welcoming that Merilee thought that if there was any kitchen that might convince her to enjoy cooking, this one might be it.
She opened the refrigerator and found it stocked with all sorts of goodies, including a fruit and cheese plate and the promised bottle of champagne and carton of orange juice. Feeling like a kid playing hooky from school, she hunted around the cabinets before she found a glass pitcher and made mimosas, going heavy on the champagne. She wasn’t driving anywhere, nor did she have to be a good example for her children, so she was going to enjoy herself.
After closing all the doors and resetting the alarm, knowing she probably wouldn’t remember to do it after the mimosas, she found the media room with the large screen upstairs. She settled herself into one of the relaxing plush leather chairs, the pitcher on one side and the cheese and fruit on the other, and proceeded to binge watch a sappy romance DVD Heather had conveniently included in her collection—lasting almost to the end before she couldn’t take it anymore.
Unsteady on her feet, Merilee returned the remnants of the food back to the fridge and, because there was only a tiny bit left in the pitcher, finished the rest of the mimosas without bothering to use her glass. She left both in the sink, planning to wash them in the morning and not trusting herself to hold on to anything right now without dropping it.
Feeling inordinately pleased with herself and happy with the world in general, she retired to her suite, forgetting her suitcase in the hall and, being too tired to retrieve it or her pajamas, stripped down to her bra and underwear before crawling into the ridiculously high-thread-count sheets. Leaving the curtains open despite the convenient button located by the side of the bed, she fell into an alcohol-induced sleep, looking forward to being awakened by a Tybee sunrise.
• • •
Something loud and blaring was interrupting her sleep. She didn’t remember setting a wake-up alarm—she didn’t remember much of anything except drinking an entire pitcher of mimosas—and thought if she could just ignore it, it would eventually stop. But it didn’t. After opening her eyes briefly before tightly shutting them again, she burrowed her head under the pillow, ignoring the chalky feel of her mouth and the fact that there was no light coming in from the windows. Either it was still the middle of the night, or she’d somehow pushed the button for the curtains and closed them.
But somewhere through the pulsing alarm, there was a thud, and then a door slamming. Merilee sat up, the room swimming around her, and it occurred to her that she was still very, very drunk.
Maybe Heather had come after all, and Merilee had a coherent thought about dirty dishes being left in the sink. And then she had the stray thought that Heather must have forgotten the alarm code because she’d changed it to something Merilee could remember. Except at that exact moment, she couldn’t.
She slid from the tall bed and padded barefoot across the wood floor of the bedroom, running into a dresser and a wall before she found the bedroom door. Opening it, she stood in the doorway for a moment, trying to remember the floor plan of the house. And where a light switch might be.
The screaming siren sound was louder in here, the marble floors scooping up the sound and throwing it back in her face and into her ears and pounding head. She slapped her hands over her ears, trying to make it stop, then lowered them again. The alarm. Had she set it incorrectly? She did remember closing the doors and heading to the alarm panel to reset it, but had she actually done it? Or did she not close a door completely and an ocean breeze blew it open? She recalled upending the mimosa pitcher for the last drop and wished that she hadn’t. Maybe then she’d have more of her brain to work with.
“Heather?” she started to say, but it came out as a burp. Why wasn’t Heather turning off the alarm? And where is the damn door? She stumbled forward, going where there was a red pulsing light across the room. It had to be the alarm panel. And if it wasn’t, she’d find a phone and call someone. If only she remembered where her phone was. A phone began to ring somewhere, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t hers, just as sure that she wouldn’t be able to find it if she couldn’t find a light switch.
She was slowly making her way across the great room toward the flashing red light, her arm stretched out in front of her, when something hit her hard against the entire side of her body, throwing her sideways against what felt like the large sofa she’d seen earlier, its back facing the front door.
The air flew from her lungs as her body landed; then, just as quickly, whatever it was that had hit her lifted off her and backed away. She slid from the edge of the sofa and onto a plush rug, the room still spinning as every single bone in her body screamed, somehow obliterating her need to feel fear.
“Heather?” she managed, tasting blood on her cracked lips.
“What the . . . ?” It was a man’s voice, but it was a familiar one. “Where’s the damned light switch?” The man moved away from her, followed by the sound of a lamp crashing to the ground, and then a moment later the overhead spotlights and chandelier sprang to life, illuminating with brilliant clarity her lying on the ground next to the sofa, the remains of a crystal lamp lying scattered nearby. And somewhere, a phone continued to ring.
“Merilee?”
It was Dan.
“Oh, my God. Are you all right? Don’t move—let me make sure you don’t have any serious injuries . . .”
But she was already struggling to sit up, moving each limb to make sure she could. “I’m fine. Just bruised a bit from the fall.” Or maybe both arms and legs were broken but the alcohol was blocking her pain. She blinked up at him. “What are you doing here? Is Heather with you?” She was embarrassed to hear her words slurring together.
“No. I’m assuming she’s at home, where she said she’d be.”
Merilee pressed her hands against her ears again. “Can you shut that off? I think my head might explode.”
“I tried—but the code’s been changed.”
She leaned her head against the sofa, trying to stop the pounding. “It’s one-one-one-one. Heather changed it for me.” She wanted to smile at her ability to remember but was afraid she might look like a lunatic.
He left her to go to the alarm panel as she closed her eyes, then immediately popped them open, not liking the way the room rocked. After a few seconds the house was blessedly silent—even the distant phone had stopped ringing. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Dan squatted down next to her. “Are you sure you’re all right? Did you hit your head? I don’t see any blood.”
“No. Thankfully, the sofa broke my fall. I think I’m just stunned. And a little drunk.”
He nodded, keeping his eyes focused above he
r neck. “I’ve been trying to reach Heather but haven’t had any luck. Neither has the security company.” He blinked at her, as if he thought she was a mirage. “What are you doing here?”
“Heather invited me for the weekend, and then Brooke got sick and she had to cancel.”
“Brooke’s sick? Heather didn’t tell me.”
Merilee pulled herself closer to the sofa, afraid to stand just in case she couldn’t, and searched for whatever sobriety she had left. The fall had at least shaken her awake. Dan was examining her head and looking into her eyes—to check for a concussion, she assumed—but his examination ended there.
“Brooke’s fine—just a little fever, but she was asking for her mom. And Heather didn’t want to bother you.” It was her turn to blink at him. “So why are you here?”
“The security company received a remote emergency call and they couldn’t identify the phone number or caller, so they called Heather to verify. When she didn’t answer, they called me. Heather insisted on getting me a satellite phone at the fishing cabin for emergencies, and I guess she gave them the number. Anyway, I had no idea what they were talking about, so then I asked them if they could see if there’d been any activity in the house and they said it appeared that both the front and back doors had been opened but the alarm wasn’t going off.”
Merilee groaned, rubbing her hands over her face as if that might help her think more clearly. “That was me. I opened up all the French doors as soon as I walked in. But I know I disarmed the alarm correctly because it gave me the green light and no alarms sounded.”
“You did it correctly—no alarm was going off until I got here and punched in what I thought was the right code. But when I first got the call, I just assumed we’d forgotten to set the alarm last time we left and the wind had blown open some of the doors, which would account for the activity and for the lack of an alarm sounding. Being on the ocean and having two little girls who don’t always remember to latch the doors means it happens a lot.”
He smiled and Merilee wondered why he’d only look at her face or around the room, and why he hadn’t offered to help her up. Which was fine, because her head had finally steadied itself and she wasn’t sure how it would do at another elevation.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I’m only an hour away, so I told the security company I would check it out and not to call the police yet. The alarm wasn’t going off, so I didn’t have to worry about annoying the neighbors, so I figured I had time to get here, close everything up securely, reset the alarm, and get back to my cabin.”
In the distance, the distinct sound of a police siren began to wail. Their eyes met in mutual understanding. “Damn it!” Dan quickly stood. “The alarm! The security company always calls here first when the alarm sounds. Did you hear a phone? That was probably them calling to see if everything’s okay before they call the police.”
“Oh, no,” Merilee said, rolling onto her front so she could use both hands to hoist herself up. She took a few tentative steps toward the front door, relieved to see that she still could. “I heard it but didn’t . . .”
She stopped, aware of two things at once: The first thing was that the sound of sirens was directly outside and she could see through the front-door windows two men climbing the front steps, silhouetted against the bright lights of their cruiser. The second thing was that she was standing there wearing only her bra and panties when Dan opened the door to greet the two officers. Behind them was a middle-aged woman wearing a bathrobe and slippers, her look of annoyance at being awakened at whatever hour of the night it might be changing to one of surprise once it alighted on Merilee. She looked vaguely familiar, and Merilee prayed she wasn’t from the school. But they’d definitely met before.
“Daniel?” the woman asked.
Merilee immediately grabbed two throw pillows from the sofa and held them in front of her, belatedly realizing that she most likely appeared nude from the visitors’ point of view.
“I’m sorry, Officers,” Dan began as he fished his wallet from his back pocket. “There’s been a mistake. The alarm code got changed and I wasn’t aware, so I set it off accidentally—and I was distracted and didn’t hear the phone ringing, nor did I think to call the security company to tell them you weren’t needed.”
He held out his ID and one of the officers inspected it. “Thank you, Dr. Blackford.” He turned to Merilee. “Mrs. Blackford?”
“Oh, no. I’m not his wife . . .” And then she stopped, realizing her mistake before the last word was uttered.
“Are you . . . all right?”
Dan must have seen Merilee’s look of acute embarrassment as she registered what the police—and the familiar-looking woman—thought they were seeing.
“Yes, of course. I’m fine.” She spoke slowly so her words wouldn’t bump into one another. “I’m his wife’s friend.” And then she stopped talking altogether, realizing she couldn’t make it right now, no matter how hard she might try.
One of the officers turned toward Dan. “This is the eighth false alarm we’ve had from this residence so far this year, sir.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. I’ll have the door latches fixed and I’ll straighten everything out with the security company so they have my emergency number to call from now on.”
“You do that. Good night, sir.” He faced Merilee and she wondered if it was a trick of the light that appeared to make him smirk. “Ma’am.”
The woman in the bathrobe attempted to move forward but was effectively blocked by the two officers. “Daniel, is there anything I can do? I’m just next door if you need me.”
He said nothing, just closed the doors and leaned his forehead against them. “I am so sorry . . .”
Dropping the pillows, Merilee ran to her room and shut the door, wondering if she could live in that room for the rest of her life.
Twenty-five
THE PLAYING FIELDS BLOG
Observations of Suburban Life from Sweet Apple, Georgia
Written by: Your Neighbor
Installment #8: Friendship: The Ties That Bind. And Strangle.
I have noticed how few grown children live near their parents anymore. Especially in the great suburban cities like Atlanta, where there are so many jobs and things to do for young people that it draws them like a spider to its web.
I’m not saying this is a bad thing—it’s wonderful that our cities can offer so much. But I think it’s the extended families that pay the price. There are a lot of grandchildren being raised who never get to know their grandparents and vice versa. And there’s so much to be learned from both generations.
Skype and FaceTime are wonderful inventions because they’re better than a phone call and it’s the next best thing to seeing your loved one in person. It strengthens the connection between separated family members. But there’s still a void to be filled in our lives, and most of us are able to do that with friendships.
Friends are the ones we turn to in a pinch when we need a babysitter, or advice, or an exercise partner. Even someone who will accompany us to the doctor and hold our hand. Friendships can be golden. They can also be toxic. And it’s not always clear who’s who until a bomb explodes and the dust clears.
But let’s not confuse real friends with Facebook friends. With few exceptions that I’ve noticed, Facebook friendships seem to be about one-upmanship, more than most of us have seen since elementary school. And about the illusion of having lots of friends. Sure, posting photos of you having a wonderful time is a great way to get back at an ex, but be careful. Everything always comes back around. It’s one of life’s guarantees, for which those of us who’ve been maligned in this life are eternally grateful.
Speaking of friends, the local coffee shop is abuzz with gossip about an incident that occurred over the long weekend between friends. It appears to be a huge misunderstanding, but it’s not clear as to who the wronged party is.
According to popular gossip, the winner of the “wronged” designation had an incredible arrangement of flowers delivered to the friend who’d allegedly wronged her.
I won’t say that I’m siding with one or the other, or even claim to have insider knowledge of what actually transpired at a beach house along the Georgia coast. All I know is that there’s more here than meets the eye, and one should look further into a person’s character and get to know her before making assumptions.
I read something on the Internet the other day about how women who have close friendships live longer than those who don’t. I think it should be added that the quality of the friendships makes the difference. See above my comment about toxic friendships. In this same article, it gave the definition of what the difference was between a good friend and a best friend. Apparently, a good friend helps you bury a body. A best friend brings their own shovel and doesn’t ask questions.
And now on to our Southern saying: “You can put your boots in the oven, but that don’t make ’em biscuits.” As I mentioned in a previous blog, it’s gala season here in our neck of the woods. Don’t try getting an appointment at your local hair or nail salon near the end of the month, because they are plumb full. You might have to go to another county if you’re desperate and can’t manage on your own.
I was at my local dry cleaner’s the other day and a mother whom I shall not name but could was pitching a hissy fit with a tail on it because the poor man had not steamed the pleats in her evening gown the exact way she’d wanted and had apparently explained to him previously in excruciating detail. A rack of dry cleaning was between us, so she didn’t see me, but I’m quite sure if she had, she wouldn’t have wanted a witness to her bad behavior and would have ended her tirade.