“Yes—how do you know Rose?” He leans toward me. He must be six foot three, making me feel like a tiny speck at five foot six.
“My friend Miranda—”
“Miranda…Miranda Michaels? Oh—sorry to interrupt.” He takes a small step back. “I saw Miranda today on my rounds. She’s always been a dear friend.”
I don’t try to get a word in edgewise. The Good Doctor seems determined to fill me in on things.
He looks at the ceiling, as if peeling off the mint green plaster layers and seeing deep into the past.
“Yes, Rose. She graduated the year before I did. Beautiful woman; the whole town said so. Married Paul Campbell—bit of a blighter, as my British grandma would say. Paul was always having poker parties, but he called them ‘dinner parties’ so the church-people wouldn’t gossip.”
“So you knew Rose well?” I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about the way he says Rose.
He looks directly at me. His eyes are what can only be described as battleship gray. Enchanting, really. Maybe Rose was enchanted by the Good Doctor?
“Her husband was quite overprotective. No one really got to know Rose well—in fact, she never left her house and her flowerbeds. As far as I recall, Miranda and I were the only ones she talked to. I was Rose’s doctor.”
With that, the conversation snaps shut like my laptop computer. The Good Doctor stretches his arm, checking his pewter-color watch.
“I’ve got to run.” He nods and heads toward the heavy smell of overcooked chicken and instant mashed potatoes.
I’m left examining my black dress pants and my scuffed slingbacks from Payless. Next to the Doctor, I feel shabby. He seems high-class. Like Thomas, only older and more settled. Why do I always have to feel so—
“Tess!” Thomas jogs out of the cafeteria. “You hardly touched your food! Are you feeling sick?” I barely have time to shake my head. “They already gave out the Outstanding Teacher Award. Mr. Irwin got it, the old coot. I always got in trouble in his lab class…Tess?”
The idea of returning to the cafeteria for more tasteless chicken with a side of leering and innuendo revolts me.
“Can we just hit Wendy’s and go home?” I pull my leather blazer tighter, a hand-me-down from Nikki Jo. I feel exposed and raw.
Thomas’ eyes soften. He slips his arm around me. “Sure, babe. Let’s get outta here.”
4
~*~
The jealousy ate away at me, though I tried to stop it. Every time we talked, Miranda had to bring her husband into the conversation somehow. Their marriage was perfect—Russell was perfect.
But I found a way to escape. I carved my own alternate reality outside the influence of my husband. When Paul had to work overtime, I’d call my true love and we’d meet beneath my wisteria arbor, regardless of rain or snow. Paul never set foot in my gardens, claiming to be allergic. In reality, he didn’t want to do any work around the house.
One bright winter day, Miranda’s pale skin glowed beneath her crimson lipstick. She could hardly contain herself as we ate her chocolate-chip pumpkin muffins. I knew before she told me: she was expecting.
I was not. I never would be. Twenty-six years old and my husband deliberately treated me like a nun.
I knew why. But I had my own plans.
~*~
How the Grande Dame managed to get this gargantuan, antique white dining table into her sitting room, I’ll never know. She sits at one end, wearing her diamond-blinged glasses and red satin dress. I anchor the opposite side, hopelessly underdressed for this apparently “cocktail-wear” meal.
Paul sits between us, his skinny frame angled toward Miranda. From the moment he shook my hand, I’ve been taking mental impressions like a sketch artist.
Soggy-biscuit handshake. Too much Old Spice, possibly to mask another smell…alcohol? Body odor?
I try to cut him a break on his appearance. He is a widower, after all—no one to cook and clean for him. But then again, if that’s what he’s searching for, why’s he dating Miranda? She can’t get in and out of the shower by herself, much less do someone’s laundry.
Once Paul starts talking, I begin to see some of his charm. He asks lots of questions about Thomas’ job, my parents-in-law, and my pregnancy—all the while watching me with sharp brown eyes. It should be encouraging to get such undivided attention, but it unnerves me.
A catering woman in a crisp white oxford shirt and black pants brings out our first course: rosemary corn soup. When I’d asked, Miranda had refused to let me bring anything, even dessert. “You just come and enjoy, Tess. I should be able to afford a meal for three people.”
Where had Miranda’s husband worked, anyway? I make a mental note to ask Nikki Jo. He must’ve left her some money, since The Haven is practically a resort facility for the elderly. It’s not every day you see assisted living homes with Keurig coffee makers for the residents, much less a lap pool and gym in the basement.
“…I never thought I could learn to live again,” Paul says. I tune back in to the conversation.
Miranda reaches out and pats his bony hand, her sapphire ring catching the light from the chandelier and reflecting it on the walls. “It was so unexpected, for all of us. She was in the prime of life.”
“Yes, a rose with no thorns.” Paul looks at me sadly, waiting for his obviously well-recited phrase to have its effect. Now it’s my turn to look into his eyes. He starts to tear up. I’m not buying it. He turns back to the Grande Dame.
“You knew her so well, Miranda. Sometimes I thought you knew her better than I did. And then, when Royston read the will—”
Miranda interrupts, which is completely out of character. “Don’t let’s talk about that now.”
Paul glances at me and nods slightly. Our second course is brought out: some sort of crab cakes on a pile of salsa. I’m sure there’s a French name for these.
“Mr. Campbell, if you don’t mind my asking, how did Rose die?” I need to hear him explain what happened.
The answer comes quickly. His piercing gaze reminds me of those hawks I see staring at small birds from the fence-posts.
“Please, call me Paul…and my Rose gave up on her own life and took an overdose. I’ve never known why, Tess.”
There’s something wrong with his tone as he says my name. Intimate? Chiding? I store it up for replay later.
Thomas thinks I have a photographic memory, but it really works more like a video camera. I can review scenes—entire conversations, really—in my head. I try to tell him it’s not a blessing to stroll down my memory lane of bumbling boyfriends and high-school angst. Still, every time he asks me What was Mrs. Martin wearing at that church meal? or What was that crazy phrase my dad used again?, I obligingly pull up the info on my brain’s hard drive. Thomas actually prays that our child-to-be will have this videographic ability, as well as my nose and his math smarts.
Conversation lulls as we dig into our thick pork chops, followed by a light raspberry chocolate mousse served in champagne flutes. Paul eats like a man who’s been living on Cheetos and Pop-Tarts.
I offer to help clean up, but the server loads all the dishes into a covered cart, then whisks it out of the suite. I wish Thomas could’ve come along tonight. It’s been ages since we’ve had a real date. Obligatory church pot-lucks and Republican dinners don’t really count.
Paul pushes his chair in and saunters over to the couch before I register how offensive that is. Not only did he forget to excuse himself, he didn’t even offer to wheel his hostess over to join him. Possessed by a strange fury, I jump up. Shoving my chair back, I walk to the opposite end of the long table and grab Miranda’s wheelchair handles. I feel like popping a wheelie and running over lazy-hiney Paul.
He doesn’t seem to notice my self-righteous production, but Miranda does. “I’ll get my chair, dear.” Her eyes darken as she puts her hands on the wheels. “You know I can handle it.”
“Sorry, Miranda.” I trail behind her across the
room, then help shift her onto the couch. She reaches for the drawer, and I fight an impulse to tell Paul “Goodnight, time to go.” Why should Miranda share the letter with him? Why’s she dating him anyway? And why can’t I stand this guy?
“Do you need help, Miranda?” He leans over and pushes the drawer in for her. Truly valiant.
Miranda charges right in with characteristic openness. “Paul, I got this strange letter. I want you to take a look.”
Taking the envelope, he pulls out the letter and slowly reads it. “Hm. Who would have something against me?”
Not a word of concern about Miranda. He doesn’t even mention the handwriting. Either Miranda is imagining things—highly unlikely—or Paul paid no attention to how his wife wrote. Who doesn’t recognize his wife’s handwriting, no matter how long she’s been dead? I feel like I have lockjaw, my teeth are clenched so hard.
Miranda gives me a look. I try to read her thoughts. Does she want me to say something? Might as well.
“Paul, do you recognize anything familiar about that letter?”
He looks at the stamp, examining the postmark. “No, should I? This person is from Arizona?” His fingers are long and thin, like his legs. Grandaddy longlegs.
I glance at Miranda, who’s picking at her pillow tassels. Her steel-gray and white hair still looks perfect—she probably had it set on hot rollers this afternoon. All for this ill-mannered ingrate.
I force a polite smile. “Just asking—trying to figure out who sent this to Miranda.”
He hands the letter back, then yawns and looks at his watch. “Ten o’clock already? I’d better skedaddle on home now, ladies.” He stands, extending those long legs and stretching his hand toward me. “So nice to meet you, Tess. You’re every bit as lovely as Miranda made you out to be.”
“Thanks. I had to meet the man who’s been spending so much time with my friend.”
Paul reaches down and gives Miranda a half-hug. “Delicious meal, my dear,” he whispers, loud enough for me to hear.
The moment Paul pulls the thin door closed, Miranda launches into me.
“What was all that hullabaloo with my wheelchair? What got into you, Tess?”
“I don’t like the way he treats you. And Miranda, he didn’t recognize Rose’s writing!”
“Treats me? He treats me just fine.” She sighs and gives me a slight nod. “But I did notice about the handwriting.”
I try a different tack. “Just wondering…what was your husband like? You hardly ever talk about him.”
“Russell? Good lands.” Her eyelids give her tiredness away, despite her careful application of concealer and eye makeup. “Well, Russell always called me his spicy fireball. He was so quiet…but when he talked, you’d better believe he had something important to say.”
“Did he get along with Paul?” Suddenly I need to know this.
Miranda peers out the window, as if she can see into the black night. “I’m getting tired, honey. How about we talk more next week?”
This feels like a polite Southern brush-off. I kiss the Grande Dame’s head, then help her into her wheelchair. She’ll push her call button soon, and an assistant will come and help her get ready for bed. We can revisit this topic later.
In the crisp fall air of the parking lot, silent except for the crunch of leaves beneath my boots, it hits me. Miranda Michaels is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a grandma, on top of being my best friend. I’ll be hanged before some jackanapes takes advantage of her. Paul Campbell had better watch his back.
5
~*~
Some winter nights when Paul worked late, I saw things in the woods. With the leafy green cover of summer gone, inexplicable movements often caught my eye when I went to load up the outdoor woodstove. A white light would move steadily through the trees and then stop. Underbrush shifted and branches rattled.
I wasn’t scared. I carried Paul’s pistol with me every time I went outside. It would have been foolish not to. Our nearest neighbor lived a forest and a field away.
Once, I asked Paul for a dog for protection. His response was, “No mangy mutts, needing shots and flea medicines. You’re just imagining things, Rose.”
True, my imagination dominated a great deal of my life. I had nothing else to do with my mind, or my time. Nothing but wait on Paul. He didn’t want anything else vying for my attention.
Regardless, I never felt threatened by the presence in the woods. I knew it wasn’t my true love, because he was working many of those nights. I finally decided it must be a guardian angel.
A guardian angel who’d heard my prayers for freedom, perhaps?
~*~
I couldn’t describe the smells of Buckneck, West Virginia, even if I tried. It has something to do with the leaves composting in the woods, the cold trickle of little creeks and waterfalls, the ferns greening up everything. But somewhere deep below, I can smell the rock and the coal this state is built on.
My dad walked out on us for the coal.
The chain from our old porch swing grates against its hooks every time I push it backward. It sheds dark green paint chips all over my jeans and the wood plank floor.
I take a swig of my already-cold coffee. We have a French press, because Thomas didn’t want to spring for a Keurig. His perpetual mantra is, “Can’t afford the K-cups on my salary.” Ain’t that the truth.
Thomas’ friends from UVA can’t understand why we didn’t head to D.C. after law school—the quickest way to take a huge bite out of his debt. Instead, we both agreed to return to a town in West Virginia so rural it rarely shows up on maps. We don’t even try to explain our choice to them, because we can barely explain it to ourselves.
Growing up, I pictured West Virginia as a giant spider’s web, spun tightly around ramshackle houses and trailer parks like the one I lived in. I couldn’t wait to get out of our valley to a flat place where skies kissed oceans—a place where everything wasn’t hemmed in with trees.
Then college in South Carolina gave me my fill of flat land, red dirt, and heavy traffic. I came home to our valley, only to find mom had taken refuge in pain pills. Even worse, she’d started selling them at a mark-up to teens in the trailer park.
I had no choice. I moved out, but not before I called the cops. I wish I could erase my brain video of Mom, mascara streaking her tears as she shouted, “Tess! Tess?” That was just her first time in county jail. Now she’s graduated to prison.
Nikki Jo crunches up our stony path in her tan cowboy boots, a welcome diversion from my memories. Her precisely highlighted blonde hair brightens and darkens with each sunray.
I get up, but Nikki Jo throws her hand up to stop me. “No, you sit down and enjoy your coffee, honey. I just wanted to bring you a cheesecake. I made five for church, so I just fixed an extra one. You like chocolate chip, right?”
“Ah, you know me too well, Mom. I’m going to gain twenty pounds before I’m into my second trimester.”
Nikki Jo takes the cheesecake into the house before returning to the porch. She plops down in our green plastic Adirondack chair and sighs.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Those boys are about to drive me crazy!” She’s talking about Petey and Dad. Thomas’ other brother, Andrew, is in college.
She looks at me, her brown eyes a shade darker than Thomas’. “Maybe you’ll finally bring a girl into the Spencer family.” Her smile deepens her dimples. “Of course, we’ll be happy with whatever the Good Lord gives us.”
I like the way she says us. One thing about the Spencers—when you marry in, you might as well be a blood relation. They’ll watch over you and fuss over you and scold you like one of their own. God knew they were everything I’d missed growing up.
“Mom, I was wondering about Miranda’s husband. What did he do?”
“Russell? Lawsie. Well, he got out of high school early and took over his daddy’s bank. Always had a head for numbers, like our Thomas. He made a fortune, since it was the only bank around for m
iles. He built the biggest house in town. Miranda never had to scrape by, that’s for sure.”
I smile, but the irony is wasted on Nikki Jo, who’s too humble to realize she now owns the biggest house in Buckneck.
“And what did Paul Campbell do?”
“Paul was a coal truck driver. He had all kinds of strange hours.”
I shift forward, rubbing my lower back. Why haven’t I put cushions on this swing yet? “I didn’t think truck drivers got paid much. Weren’t Paul and Rose wealthy, too?”
“Sure they were. But all their money came straight through Rose, not Paul.”
Petey runs helter-skelter up the path, shooting gravel every which way. “Tess! The floral truck’s up at the house! Someone sent you flowers, but you have to sign for them.”
Nikki Jo hides a smile. “I think you could’ve signed for those, Petey.”
“No, Ma, he specifically said Tess has to sign. I told him he’d just have to wait.” Petey’s chin juts out, and he stands with his hands on his hips. “Those flowers came all the way from Point Pleasant!” The riverfront town is a good forty-minute drive from here.
I stand, brushing off the paint chips. “Guess we’ll go see what it is, then.” I say we, because doubtless Nikki Jo and Petey will stick with me like white on rice until we get to the big house.
Yellowed hostas wither beneath the scraggly rhododendrons lining our footpath. Nikki Jo’s landscaping around the big house looks twenty times better than ours. The woman is a regular whiz with flowers, food, and anything remotely housewifely. Thomas says I have a brown thumb, since I’ve killed every bush and bulb we’ve transplanted from his mother’s gardens.
Who on earth would’ve sent flowers? Thomas knows better than to do that, given our budget. It’s like burning money—why buy something that’ll die in a week, instead of saving for the baby furniture we need? My Scotch-Irish roots run deep, and I’ve already told Thomas we’re not asking his parents for money to gear up for our accidental baby.
As we cross Nikki Jo’s wraparound porch, Petey runs ahead of us. He jumps over the low-lying azalea bushes and shouts at the flower guy. “Hey!”
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