A cough sounds from the loft above. Another hint to quit my tapping? I look up, only to lock eyes with the Good Doctor. It takes me a few minutes to recall his real name: Doctor Cole. Bartholomew Cole.
Again, he looks quite snappy, sporting a gray shawl-collar cardigan, complete with those old-fashioned leather buttons and elbow patches. He’s wearing round tortoise-shell glasses that shout Ralph Lauren. A massive tome sits open on his lap—maybe a medical book from the 1800s?
I write Dr. on my hand, so I’ll remember to ask Miranda about his relationship with Rose. He waves slightly, then stands and disappears. Quiet shoe-steps sound on the marble stairs and it hits me—he’s coming to talk.
A chill runs down my back, making my shoulders shake. My old dude neighbor shoots me an undisguised glare. My spidey-senses are tingling. Maybe I’ll get out of here; pretend I was already leaving.
I grab my quilted bag. Striding to the unmanned librarians’ desk, I toss the computer check-out card across the counter in the vain hope someone will find it later. When I shove the interior glass door, an arm reaches above me and holds it open.
“Tess Spencer, isn’t it?” The Doctor’s deep voice surrounds me. He follows me into the hallway before I can get to the outer set of doors.
I turn, smiling my brightest. “Yes, Doctor. How nice to see you again.”
“You shouldn’t have to open doors—you’re expecting, aren’t you?” Though his chiseled jaw and white hair combo distracts me, I do have some brain cells left. My hand flies to my stomach.
“How did you know? I didn’t think I was showing all that much.”
He laughs. “No, I do house calls at The Haven, remember? Miranda talks to me quite frequently about her young protégé. Or should I say friend? You’re very good for her, Tess. Widows should not be forgotten—that’s biblical, you know.”
Is that an insult? As if I don’t know the Bible? Just because I don’t show up at any of the four churches in town…
He steps closer, blocking the cold draft from the outside doors. “I see too many widows and widowers who are completely forgotten by their families. Speaking of widowers, I hear you’ve met Paul Campbell? What do you make of him?”
A flicker of ice creeps into the Good Doctor’s blue-gray gaze. Looks to me like he doesn’t care for that blighter, as he called Paul. Neither do I, but I don’t have anything solid to base my opinions on.
“He’s tolerable,” I finally answer.
He buttons his sweater and motions to the door. “May I walk you to your car?”
Sure, why not? As usual, I’ve got my knife on me.
I click open the SUV door and jump in, turning the engine on to get some heat rolling. The Doctor stands at the open door, hesitant. He looks like he wants to tell me something—and every instinct tells me it’s important.
“Did you want to talk, Doctor?” I motion toward my passenger seat. The tall, dapper man nods and comes around. Let’s hope I’m trusting the right person.
8
~*~
Every time the doors were open, we were in church. My mother would braid my hair and help me get into one of my frilly, pressed dresses. She never stopped humming as she did it. “We’re going to the Lord’s house today, my little Rose.”
I must’ve been about six when it hit me that my father never came to church with us. He owned a steamboat on the Ohio River, and he ran it on Sundays. Funny thing was, absence must’ve made the heart grow fonder for Mother—when he was gone, she was happy.
Sometimes I wondered if my mother fell for Paul every bit as much as I did. He’d bring her flowers and chocolates. They’d sit on the porch and talk for hours. She soaked up the attention, something Father never gave her. Or me.
So I married Paul, and had more than my share of attention from then on. Attention if I ate too much pie. Attention if my hair was askew. Attention if his pants weren’t pressed for company. Repercussions came when those details were amiss.
I planned my way out, even as I subjected myself to the sham of marriage. Justice was thwarted, but not forever.
~*~
The clove-like smell of the Good Doctor’s sweater draws me closer as he starts talking.
“To be frank, I’ve noticed your curiosity about Rose. I wonder if this stems from Miranda’s recent relationship with Paul?”
All right. You want frank, Doctor? I’ll be frank.
“Yes, I’m concerned, and I’ll tell you why. Miranda got a note from someone, warning her away from Paul.”
“A note? Any idea who it came from?”
“This is where it gets strange. According to Miranda, the handwriting matches Rose’s.”
The Doctor’s face struggles between surprise and denial. Denial wins out.
“I pronounced her, Tess. She overdosed on her Digoxin. I knew that’s what it was because I prescribed it to her, yet she had no significant premorbid illness. It was toxicity, pure and simple.”
“Doctor, I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe someone knows her writing and copied it. Paul didn’t even recognize it—or so it seemed. And why would he want to warn Miranda off from dating himself? Maybe someone just hates Paul.”
My cheeks feel hot as fireballs, so I turn off the car. I don’t have any good theories on this. And I find it hard to believe the note came from a ghost.
“There is the issue of the will,” the Good Doctor says.
My mind re-runs Paul’s comment at the dining table. “You knew her so well, Miranda. Sometimes I thought you knew her better than I did. And then, when Royston read the will—”
“What issue?”
The Doctor takes off his fogged-up glasses and starts wiping at them with his pocket handkerchief. I don’t know if I’m more entranced by the old-fashioned handkerchief or by the compassionate eyes focused on me.
“I thought everyone in town knew. Of course, you’re young. Rose left all her money to Miranda, since she was her best friend. Left nothing to Paul but the house. Caused a real stir in Buckneck, believe you me.”
So that’s why Miranda changed the subject at the dinner table. Awkward topic when you’re dating your best friend’s husband. And are they just dating? I need to talk with her…
The Good Doctor’s still watching me. “You’re very observant, aren’t you, Tess?”
This is starting to feel uncomfortable. It probably wouldn’t be uncomfortable if I didn’t find Doctor Cole so attractive, much less mentally refer to him as the Good Doctor.
“Have you ever thought about studying counseling? Miranda truly feels you have a gift for reading people. I can see that.”
“Thanks, Doctor. I’ll think about that.” I turn the key, making a point of looking at the clock. “Oh, look at the time! I’ve got to get home.” To my empty house.
He gets the hint. “So sorry to keep you. Keep your eyes open, my dear.”
My cheeks flame as he closes the door.
All the way home, those words ring in my head. A gift for reading people. More like a curse. I told my mom something was wrong with Dad, a week before he walked out on us. I figured out Mom was doing some kind of pills, just from a phone call. And now I know someone has it in for Miranda. It’s not even the note. It’s just a feeling that something’s still wrong—the same thing that was wrong forty years ago when Rose died. A malignancy, a tumor, slowly growing in someone’s heart. A conscience that’s seared.
What if Rose’s death wasn’t an overdose, no matter what the Good Doctor swears to the contrary?
Once I’m home, I change and get onto my stationary bike. I need to process my recent conversation. Why’s the Doctor being so friendly? I don’t think he’s fake. But I’m pretty sure Paul doesn’t like me. Maybe because I’m too close to Miranda?
My bike sits toward the back wall of our cottage, in a room the size of a closet. The window is practically flush with a sprawling oak tree. I try to check my reflection in the darkened glass as “Don’t Stop Believin’” plays on my mp3 player. Yeah.
Wish I knew what I believed.
Back in Sunday school, I believed Jesus loved me, probably because I was painfully aware my own daddy didn’t. This love filled me up until college. Then a few guys stomped all over my heart, I figured out my mom was doing drugs, and my roommate died when a drunk driver crossed into her lane in broad daylight.
In the end, no one loved me; least of all God. He didn’t give—He took away.
Thomas has taken me to a few church dinners. They always turn out badly, because I hardly know anyone in town. To them, I’m simply “Thomas Spencer’s wife.”
Nikki Jo’s tried harder, inviting me to every imaginable women’s Bible study. She must think I’m a mess. Still, she doesn’t treat me like a mess.
I make a mental checklist of to-dos for the week. Talk to Miranda about the Doctor’s income and relationship with Rose. Go to my first prenatal appointment. Figure out if I still believe in God. Because we want this baby to go to church, right? Otherwise the poor child might end up like my absentee dad or my jailbird mom.
I project a grim smile to my wavery window-reflection. Those panes must be a hundred years old. I look pale, and not in a good way. I push down again at my cowlick, which manages to protrude despite my headphones. I’m not going to that beautician again.
Turning back to my bike, I glimpse something moving outside. Something very close to my window.
I jump off, peering into the blackness.
There, by the tree trunk, our house light illuminates a face—a woman’s face. It’s familiar somehow.
I kill the lights and run upstairs. Taking our subcompact handgun from the drawer, I eject the magazine, feeling in the darkness to make sure there’s a bullet in place. Nothing like a loaded Glock in hand to endow me with a healthy dose of bravery.
I move through the dark house, grabbing a flashlight before silently turning our front knob and stepping outside. Flashlight held high, I rush to the back of the house and click it on, straight toward the tree.
Nothing. She’s gone.
Who is she?
As I round the house again, Thor yelps his way down the path, Petey running behind.
“Tess! I saw the light! What’s going on?”
I’m beginning to think Petey’s my real stalker. “Petey, you should be asleep! You have school tomorrow!”
He ignores my words of wisdom. “Why do you have your gun? Was someone out here?”
I nod. “A woman.”
“Did you check my traps out back? Maybe she’s there!” Petey grabs my flashlight and runs. I follow him, stepping carefully in the dark as Thor darts around. At least his incessant yipping gives his position away.
Petey pulls branches off a deep hole behind the oak tree. “Nothing in here. I’ll check my other traps.” I wait as he makes his rounds, imagining the kinds of traps a twelve-year old could have come up with. I’d better have him sketch me a trap-map before I venture deeper into the woods.
It doesn’t take long for him to get back. “No one around. How’d she miss all my traps?” He shakes his head in disbelief.
She must have been here for a while, figuring out which way to go…watching and waiting outside my window.
Looks like I’m going to have to drag Thomas into this sordid mess.
9
~*~
Our second year of marriage, after I’d stopped leaving the house, Paul brought home a new red lace dress for me.
“Get yourself all fancied up, Rosey. We’re having a date tonight.”
I spent all day wondering if my desperate prayers were finally answered. Maybe Paul had come to his senses, realizing he’d beaten his wife into submission. Maybe he was ready to make amends. After all, he’d never once apologized for hitting me.
I pulled the rollers out of my long hair, awed that it was still strawberry-blonde. I should’ve had thousands of white hairs, given the things I’d been through. God had a sense of humor. Miranda was already getting white hairs, and she had an idyllic life. Big house, perfect husband, and now, a healthy baby girl named Charlotte.
Mascara and eye-shadow, which I seldom used, brought out a sparkle in my eyes that had died with my girlhood. I started to see what my lover saw, every time he complimented me.
Determined to please Paul—to give him a chance—I put on my highest black heels and waited for him to get home, though it was already five-thirty. He wasn’t leaving much time to clean up before our date.
He arrived at eight that night, filthy with coal dust. He took one look at me and smiled. “Let me change, and we’ll have our date. Is there any of your leftover pot roast in the fridge?” My empty stomach turned as he spoke.
All along, our date was to be at home. With leftovers.
I went into the kitchen, got my scissors, and came back out as he was shaking one of his black boots over the doormat. He turned, smile still frozen in place. I made a long, deliberate cut from the bottom of my dress to my thighs. Then, summoning all my strength, I ripped the entire dress in half. As it fell to the floor, I stood there, in nothing but my underclothes.
Paul just stared as I said, “You’ll never hurt me again, Paul Campbell. The day is far spent, and the time for repentance is past.”
~*~
Thomas crawls into bed around three in the morning, effectively nixing any time for chitchat. At breakfast, his zombie-eyes seem out of focus as he downs his fourth cup of coffee. He grabs his lunch bag, almost forgetting to give me his usual goodbye kiss.
I wait till his lunchtime to call, hoping he’ll agree to go out to eat tonight. We need to talk, and I need to get away from my invisible cottage stalker. To my surprise, Thomas accepts. We set up a meeting time for our favorite Point Pleasant restaurant, Bistro Americain.
I wander around the house, my thoughts disjointed. I should do the stationary bike, but I don’t want to go into that room. Curled yellow buds open on my potted plant in the front window. A begonia, Nikki Jo said. Even though Nikki Jo likes flowers, she’s not obsessed with them like Rose was.
And why was Rose so obsessed? Maybe she needed a hobby with the agoraphobia. Something tickles the back of my mind…I’m missing something.
I visualize Nikki Jo, touching the deep green leaves on my plant. “Unusual gift, this time of year.”
Unusual? Or deliberate?
I call my in-laws. Nikki Jo picks up, but I hear the Fox news channel blaring before she speaks.
“What you need, baby girl?” My mother-in-law’s endearments make me grin from ear to ear.
“Mom, do you have any old books on flowers? Like, the meaning of flowers and stuff?”
“I might have some in that jam-packed bookcase in the attic. It’s going to break down the rafters someday. I keep telling Roger to go through it, but he won’t. Anyway, why don’t you come over and take a look?”
“Will do. Thanks.” I grab several of Nikki Jo’s clean dishes to return. I look at my stomach to see if the contents of those dishes have fattened the baby up. Sure enough. At least, I hope it’s just the baby.
Nikki Jo’s burnt-orange front door perfectly matches the plaid ribbons on her twig wreath. Twin hunter-green urns flank the door, overflowing with profuse purple and yellow flowers. People with this level of decorating skills are born, not made.
Roger opens the door and throws his arms around me. “How’s the little momma?”
I pat my stomach. “Getting bigger, I think?”
He laughs. “You ain’t showin’ yet. C’mon in where it’s warm.”
The blonde wood floor in the hallway is polished to perfection. Nikki Jo comes down the curving staircase, triumphantly brandishing a book.
“I went up there to poke around. And blamed if this book didn’t fall right out in front of me! The very one I was thinking about.” She hands the thin green book to me. The True Meaning of Flowers runs up the spine. “Is that what you wanted, Tess?”
“Sure was.”
Roger kisses my cheek and takes his leave into the TV room—back to hi
s news channel. Nikki Jo and I discuss town issues, like how the beautician is divorcing her husband and how the funeral director’s retiring. Nothing gets past Nikki Jo, but she doesn’t spread the news in a malicious way. She’s just disseminating information. I find myself wishing Miranda had Nikki Jo’s sharing abilities. I feel like she hasn’t told me anything important yet about Rose. But maybe I haven’t dug deep enough.
When we finish talking, I give Nikki Jo a quick hug, ignore Thor dancing around my feet, and head back to the cottage.
Walking along Nikki Jo’s brick path, I admire her perfectly manicured holly bushes. If only we had the money to fix up our place more. Still, I’m thankful Thomas’ parents let us use their cottage rent-free while we’re paying off student loans.
My mom was thrilled I was marrying a lawyer, convinced we’d have a huge house with an extra room so she could move in. Of course, this was contingent on her ability to stay out of prison, which proved impossible. If she ever sees our small cottage, she’ll still think I married up, compared to the trailer park.
I grab a fleece jacket, then sit on the porch to read the flower book in the streaming sunlight. The thin pages have a musty smell that’s not unpleasant. I run my finger down the words. Baby’s Breath. Bachelor’s Button…Begonia. Yellow Begonia: Warning or I am fanciful.
Warning.
Someone is trying to warn me, not just Miranda.
I slam the book shut, looking toward the woods. The light glints off something metallic, probably one of Petey’s traps. Let’s hope little Thor doesn’t get messed up in one of them. Usually Nikki Jo keeps him inside till Petey gets home from school.
Back inside, I lay out my black pantsuit and my silky moss-green blouse. I’ll wear my favorite high-heeled boots tonight, not to mention makeup. Maybe if I look good, I’ll divert Thomas’ attention from the heavy stuff I’m saying.
After a hot bath and liberal application of Thomas’ favorite perfume, Cool Water, I feel halfway presentable. Thomas will be wearing his office attire—dress pants, a suit jacket, and tie. It’s more intimidating when a lawyer dresses up for work, he says. And he needs all the intimidation factor he can muster, as the lowest lawyer on the totem pole. Even though his degree supersedes anyone else’s, his age and inexperience knock him down several rungs in the eyes of Buckneck residents.
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