Iris forced herself to shake her head, feeling an almost tangible pain, like yanking a chunk of hair from her scalp. She knew what would happen if they met for drinks. Alcohol plus her emotionally charged state plus the lingering desire rippling between them would add up to bad decision-making. She didn’t sleep with married men. It was a line she didn’t cross. “Drinks are a bad idea,” she said baldly, “and I don’t want to be revenge sex.”
Cade put out a hand and cupped her chin, his thumb moving lightly along her jaw and then across her mouth. “It wouldn’t be like that. I don’t think I ever stopped loving you.”
She turned her face away from his hand with a pinch of anger. “Stop it, Cade. We’re not teenagers anymore.”
His hand dropped. “No.” He sounded so sad, Iris wondered what the last twenty-three years had brought him besides a cheating wife, two kids, and a legal career. For the first time, she noticed the hint of pouches beneath his eyes that seemed to drag them down at the corners.
It would be so much easier if they were still teenagers, Iris thought as he turned and walked away, instead of adults with a minefield of experiences and mistakes, memories and false expectations, booby trapping the space between them. She opened her mouth to call him back, but shut it and let him go.
twenty
iris
Iris watched until Cade disappeared around the corner of the church, his pace increasing the farther he got from her. Almost like he was running away. She could have met him at Nosh, had a beer, and let him pour out the story of his failed marriage. That, in her experience, was the only thing newly divorced men wanted to talk about once they downed a martini or three. If she and Cade ended up in the sack, his not-quite-ex-wife would be right there with them. No wonder she stuck with younger men, Iris told herself, kicking at an acorn on the path. The bed was a lot less crowded.
With annoyance, she realized she hadn’t even asked her mother the questions she’d come to ask: Where were she and Neil that night and what had they been doing? What time had her father left the house? The acorn dribbled to a stop on one of the granite blocks marking the site of a buried urn. The date of death made her curious: the day she ran away. Using the toe of her shoe, Iris lifted the rambunctious crocus that arched over the name. She had to cock her head and bend forward to read through the shadow that made the letters hard to make out. G, L … Glynnis Brozek.
“Oh, my God.” Iris spoke the words under her breath. How had she forgotten that Mrs. Brozek’s first name was Glynnis? Probably because children in the Community back then called adults Mr. or Mrs. Whoever, not “Miss Heather” or “Mr. Jim” like kids did today. Her phone message from the morning no longer felt like a wrong number. Someone was warning her that she might end up like Glynnis Brozek: dead.
Suddenly feeling creeped out despite the sunshine and a swallowtail butterfly gliding toward a daffodil, Iris hurried toward her car. Her boots scuffed dully against the paving stones and the sound of a door closing carried. Iris looked up to see a man locking the church office. He straightened. On the short side, he carried himself tall with shoulders squared. Even at a distance, Iris could feel a sense of purpose about him. As she drew closer, she recognized him. His light hair had darkened to an indeterminate brown and receded, but the long nose was the same, as was the smile. Glasses gave him a professorial air.
“Zach.” She held out her hand. She’d always liked Zach Brozek better than his sister, Esther. She smiled, surprised by how nice it was to see him. He had matured into what had always been a precocious seriousness, a level-headed way of viewing his peers and his circumstances.
“Mercy.” He unexpectedly swept her into a bear hug, squeezing her against the doughiness of a slight paunch. He smelled like deodorant soap and coffee. Releasing her, he smiled and said, “No, it’s something else now. Starts with an I. Irene?”
“Iris.”
“That’s right. Esther told me. It suits you.”
“Thanks.”
He slid keys into his pockets and said, “Walk with me. I’m off to visit old Mrs. Dorfmann. Remember her? She’s blind now and I read to her a couple of times a week.”
Falling into step beside him, Iris said, “Wow. I thought she was ancient when we were kids. She must be what—a hundred and twelve?”
Zach laughed. “Ninety-seven last month. She hardly leaves the house now, but people are kind. Her son Steve and his wife have tried to talk her into moving in with them, but she wants to stay at home.”
Iris had no reply to that and a silence fell. A barbed-wire fence, new since Iris’s time, bounded a field two feet from the dirt path. Tufts of brown and tan hair clung to some of the barbs and Iris puzzled over them before the sight of an alpaca in the field clued her in. It gazed at them, blinked once, then trotted toward its brethren drinking from the wind-riffled surface of the pond. Bees burrowed into the clover dotting the verge and buzzed, pollen-laden, to the hives hunched in the middle of the field. Their hum reverberated inside Iris, helping her relax.
Zach paused and turned, studying her face. “Why did you come back, Iris?”
She got a sense that he didn’t approve of her return or, at least, that he had reservations about her presence. “I wanted to see your father, now that he’s awake,” she said baldly. “And mine.”
“Esther said she found you in his room.”
Iris nodded. “You don’t seem quite as opposed to my presence”—as out of your gourd hostile—“as your sister.”
“This was your home. It could be again.” When she made a slight gesture of denial, he continued, “I’ve always been sorry that you were driven away from it, that you left without the ritual of reconciliation. It’s not too late.”
“Oh, yes it is.” Iris had no intention of reconciling with the Community in the service that welcomed back sinners after they’d been punished with the reckoning stones. It was supposed to occur one month after the stones, to give the sinner time to truly repent in the face of being banned from the church, shunned by friends and neighbors, cast into social purgatory. Mr. Carpenter had eagerly embraced reconciliation, eyes streaming with tears of joy, at the ceremony a month after young Mercy watched him disappear into the woods. Even at fifteen, Iris would rather have eaten glass than accept reconciliation, let the Community pretend they were good and generous to welcome her back to the fold. The idea was equally repulsive now.
Zach resumed walking. “It’s a miracle that my father woke up,” he said, not ducking the topic as Iris had thought he might. “God must have a purpose. I don’t presume to know what it is, but perhaps it’s the opportunity for healing and forgiveness.”
“I didn’t come to forgive him,” she said.
Zach stiffened. “I meant that you could receive his forgiveness for what you said about him. Accepting forgiveness can lead to healing and spiritual growth.” He paused. “You might be able to offer forgiveness as well. Although my father was a righteous man, he could be … harsh on occasion when meting out punishment. Since the Community made me pastor, we haven’t used the reckoning stones.”
His last words were clearly an afterthought, meant to appease her. She strode several steps ahead, stopping shy of Mrs. Dorfmann’s house, and then turned, arms crossed over her chest. There was no point in reiterating her innocence and Pastor Matt’s guilt. “I don’t believe in that—in God, in prayer—anymore.” She wasn’t sure she ever had. Her childhood prayers and church attendance had been no more than obedience to her parents and the Community, a reflex. Answered prayers were coincidence; unanswered ones were not God saying “No,” as her mother would have it, but simply the universe going about its business unheeding of individual pleas, hopes, and desires. To stop him from arguing the efficacy of prayer, she added, “My father didn’t do it.”
Zach looked grave. “He confessed, Mercy.”
She let the name slip go. “He lied to protect me, but I didn’t
even see your father”—so much easier to think of him that way, as having no link, not even that of “pastor,” to herself—“that night.”
“Mercy—” He put a hand on her shoulder, his face a mask of understanding and pity.
That’s how he’d look at someone who told him she’d been abducted by aliens, Iris thought. “Iris.”
“Right. Sorry.” He squeezed her shoulder and reminded her so much of Pastor Matt in that moment that her stomach lurched.
She stepped back, and his arm fell. “Where were you that night?” she asked, to cover her distress. “Did you see anyone at your house?”
Turning away from her, he mounted the single step to Mrs. Dorfmann’s porch and rapped on the door. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “We all doubt, Iris. Now and then. Sometimes for long, dark periods. But God, in his mercy, shines bright enough to dissolve the doubts, or, at least, to thin them so we can see him through them.”
What the hell did that have to do with her question? Her brows twitched together. Was he deliberately refusing to tell her where he’d been that night, or was he so accustomed to using pastor-speak, that he couldn’t respond straight-up? Another thought occurred to her. “Are you saying you have doubts about what happened to your father?”
Zach sighed and knocked louder, not looking at her. “Don’t go digging up the past. We’ve all come to peace with what happened. There’s no point to—”
A thin voice called “Who is it?” and Zach broke off to answer. “It’s Pastor Zach.” Looking down at Iris, he said, “You haven’t been reconciled.”
It took her a long moment to realize he was saying she couldn’t enter Mrs. Dorfmann’s house, that she was no more welcome in the Community than sewage in a pristine river. The exclusion stung more than she’d expected.
“Damn, Zach. Rigid much?” She considered forcing the issue, pretty sure Mrs. Dorfmann would be delighted to see her, but then decided it would be unfair to put her on the spot. She started to leave, but turned back to say, “I’m surprised you spoke to me. Weren’t you afraid of being contaminated?”
A slight flush colored the tops of his ears, but he said levelly, “Jesus went among tax collectors and prostitutes in order to save them.”
“Well, I’ve never been a tax collector, at least.” Not waiting to see how he took that, she walked away as the door squeaked open behind her.
“Who was that, Pastor Zach?” Mrs. Dorfmann’s quavery voice asked.
“A stranger,” he said. “Lost. So, are we going to read another chapter of The Secret Life of Bees today?” The screen door banged shut.
twenty-one
jolene
Trundling a shopping cart around the King Sooper’s after the college fair, Jolene scanned her list, moving away from the chill of the frozen foods aisle. She enjoyed grocery shopping, taking pleasure in the orderly rows of stacked cans and boxes, the sense of plenty in the meat section, the international foods aisle with the products she kept meaning to try, but never did. What did one do with garam masala or fish sauce? The store smelled of baked goods and flowers from the florist department and, on impulse, she stuck a bunch of sunflowers atop the groceries in her cart. Their zingy yellow made her happy. Produce section, and then check-out.
She was gently palpating avocadoes when a woman’s voice said, “Hello, Jolene.”
Marian Asher stood there, shopping basket filled with leafy greens and a baguette. Her short hair and shirtwaist dress were crisp and Jolene felt limp by contrast, like the romaine leaves a store employee was ripping off and tossing in a cardboard box. She forced a smile. “Marian. How are you? Where’s Angel?”
The older woman’s face tightened. “At ballet. Nothing I could say convinced Noah that dance classes are a waste of time and money. He’s gotten spiritually lax since he joined the Army and married that Methodist. If it were up to me … However, when he deployed, I promised I’d try to stick to her routine as much as possible, so I haul her over there twice a week.” Her tone suggested she was leaving her granddaughter in an opium den.
“It’s hard on you, having a five-year-old around. You’re not used to it. Rachel would be happy to babysit, you know, take Angel off your hands any time you need a break.” Rachel would be resentful, not happy, but serving others would be good for her.
“I’m perfectly capable of caring for my granddaughter.” Before Jolene could respond, Marian added, “I suppose you’ve heard Mercy is back. I saw her today. Calls herself ‘Iris’ now.” Marian sniffed her disapproval.
“She’s a jewelry designer.”
“Is she?” Marian looked uninterested.
Jolene eyed her, wondering if the disinterest was a pose. “Yes. She’s won lots of awards.”
The website had captivated Jolene, drawing her into a world of sparkle and glamour that was totally foreign. She’d pored over the sparse biography, the single headshot of Iris Dashwood looking beautiful and intense, the photos of her jewelry. Iris led a creative life, free to join some handsome man for a weekend in Fiji or work with her gems and gold into the wee hours. Jolene led a mother’s life, a wife’s life, constrained by faculty meetings, Community events, her children’s needs, her husband’s expectations. She gripped and released the cart’s handle. “Did you get her phone number?” Jolene said, surprised to realize just how intensely she longed to see Mercy again.
“No. She’ll be around the Community, though. She’s set on proving Neil innocent and getting him released from prison.”
“Really? She thinks he didn’t do it?”
“Of course he didn’t do it.”
“He confessed.”
“Be that as it may, Iris intends to free him.”
Jolene’s hand clenched and her fingers dented the avocado. “Who does she think did it?”
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t bet against her finding out. She always was determined, that girl. It led her to set up her will against mine and her father’s sometimes, which I tried to discipline out of her. Overall, I thought it was a good thing, her working so hard when she wanted something, that the Lord could use her to accomplish a lot. But she turned her back on him, on us, and ran away and hid like Adam and Eve after they ate of the forbidden fruit and lied to the Lord about it.”
Anger bubbled in Jolene. “Iris”—she deliberately used the new name—“was never a liar. Maybe if we, the Community, hadn’t been so quick to assume she was … . Who knows how things might have turned out?” If I had spoken up, would Mrs. Brozek still be alive? Would Iris still be Mercy, still be part of the Community? The questions had haunted her for twenty-three years. She turned away to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes and put the damaged avocado into a plastic bag.
“When I see her again, I’ll tell her you’d like to see her,” Marian said, shifting the basket to her other arm. “I’ve got to run or I’ll be late picking up Angel. The way that child babbles on about toe shoes and sequins and wanting to be a princess—tch. Noah and Keely actually allow her to watch TV and it’s clearly had a negative effect. Did you know there’s apparently a show about girls her age being in beauty pageants? Wicked.”
Jolene nodded noncommittally and let out a relieved breath when Marian headed toward the cash registers. She appreciated Marian and all she did for the Community, but couldn’t like her. She knew it wasn’t fair, but she found the woman cold. Even when she was expressing outrage, like against the television show, she spoke in a colorless tone, never getting loud or excited. It’s unnatural, Jolene thought, bending to lift groceries onto the moving belt. A memory stirred, of her and Mercy as teenagers discussing Marian’s lack of passion, with Mercy saying she and Noah had probably been conceived by artificial insemination.
“I mean, can you see my mom doing it?” she’d asked. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor of Jolene’s bedroom, ostensibly finishing their World Lit homework.
Jo
lene wrinkled her face. “Gross.”
“‘Neil,’” Mercy said, putting on her mother’s clipped voice, “‘I’ve scheduled precisely ten minutes this evening for marital relations. Please ensure you’ve showered beforehand and be prompt. I’ve got good deeds and housecleaning to accomplish when we’ve finished.’”
Jolene put a horrified hand to her mouth but couldn’t stop the giggles from erupting. “Mercy! You shouldn’t talk about your parents that way.”
She was smiling faintly at the memory of their uncontrollable laughter when the cashier asked, “Paper or plastic, ma’am?”
twenty-two
iris
Unaccountably hurt by Zach calling her a stranger, Iris walked to Debby’s Café; it was more or less on her way back to the church where her car was parked, anyway. Half of her wanted to beat feet out of Lone Pine, but the other half argued she should take the opportunity to check some people’s memories of the night Pastor Matt was beaten and Glynnis Brozek died. If they were going to get her dad out of prison, she’d have to prove someone else committed the crimes. The only way to do that after all this time, she figured, was to talk to people, to sift what they said, compare it to what others said, and find discrepancies. She wasn’t going to find a smoking gun or bloody tire iron after twenty-three years.
A bell over the café door announced her entry. Half-expecting to see one of the Ulms, who owned the café, Iris was greeted by a young woman she didn’t know and followed her to a window table. She ordered a glass of iced tea and a tuna salad sandwich, liking the way a fern half-blocked the light coming in the window, and the soothing neutrality of the taupe and cream décor. No more red-checked gingham curtains. The pies displayed under glass domes on the counter looked the same as when she lived here, and Iris ordered a slice of apple pie when she finished her sandwich.
“Apple’s the best,” the waitress said, sliding a plate in front of Iris.
The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense Page 12