I kiss Thomas’ cheek to distract him, then slip from his grasp. “We’ll be in the den, babe.”
“Aw.” He turns to his fighting brothers, ready to rejoin the fray.
Kelsey and I are in the hall when Nikki Jo rushes out, her kitten heels long since exchanged for embroidered house slippers. “Tess, I think Miranda needs to get home. She’s a little short of breath, but she won’t stop working around the kitchen. I’m worried about her.”
“No problem, Mom. Sorry, Kelsey. I’d better get her home.”
“Sure.” Kelsey looks bewildered as to what to do next.
“I’m sure Petey would love to play some Xbox with you,” I add.
“Yeah, sounds good.” She saunters back to the dining room. I’m not sure if she was being serious or facetious about playing with Petey.
Nikki Jo speaks behind her hand. “I swan, I don’t know what to make of that one. She’s quiet as a mouse. I don’t know what Andrew sees in her.”
I try to be diplomatic. After all, I was once a girlfriend under Spencer scrutiny. “Maybe he needs someone quiet like that. I mean, you know Andrew.”
Nikki Jo nods thoughtfully before going to retrieve Miranda for me.
When Nikki Jo rolls her in, the Grande Dame is so pale, her perfectly-matched ivory makeup sits like a tan mask on her face. Why didn’t I get her out of here sooner? Why didn’t I notice?
“I know what you’re thinking, girlie. Don’t you worry one bit. Just bundle me back home and one of those little caregivers will make sure everything’s okay. Or maybe Doc Cole will be around.”
Every time Miranda says Doc Cole, my stomach clenches. Too many coincidences surround him. I wish I could move into Miranda’s suite, until we figure out who’s sending the notes. I remember I still haven’t showed her the second note. I don’t think I ever will.
Nikki Jo and I drape Miranda’s mink-trimmed black coat around her arms, wedging it against her chair. Thomas joins us, ready to carry the wheelchair down the front steps.
As he picks it up, his triceps flex in his fitted shirt, destroying my morbid train of thought. I can totally picture the light blond hairs on those tan arms. He catches my wandering eye and winks.
Jeepers. Sometimes I’m way too transparent.
Once we’re settled in the SUV, Miranda sighs.
I adjust my seat, since it’s pulled all the way back for Thomas. “Sorry if this tired you out today.”
“Oh, no, honey. It’s not that. It’s just memories.” She sighs again. Something’s weighing on her.
“You want to share?” I fight the urge to fire off twenty questions.
“Nikki Jo was talking about Pastor Cliff. He was a good man—died young, you know.”
Sometimes Miranda talks to me like I’m her age. I take this as a compliment.
She pulls a handkerchief from her beaded 1960s-era clutch and dabs her eyes. “So sorry, I still get emotional after all these years. I took Rose to his funeral. He was no older than we were. One of the sweetest souls God put upon this earth.”
“What happened?”
“Winter roads on the mountain, that’s what happened. He had an old truck—they said the tread was gone. Slid right over the bank, not far from Rose’s house.”
“That’s a pretty secluded road.”
She shoots me a sharp glance. “You don’t miss a thing, do you? You’re right—he’d been out visiting with Rose.”
Her blue gaze doesn’t waver from my face. She either suspects or knows there was something between the pastor and Rose. She’s just too much of a lady to come out and tell me.
For a housebound woman, Rose sure got around. The more I uncover about her, the more compassion I feel for Paul. How much did he know?
Reading my mind, Miranda speaks up. “Paul had no idea what was going on.”
So she thinks. But have they even discussed Rose’s love life? Seems to me, if I were a husband who found out, I’d be tempted to hurt my wife’s lovers. And Pastor Cliff died right near the Campbells’ house.
Miranda leans her head back into the seat and closes her eyes. I drive as fast as I can around the switchbacks. If she has an attack, I have no idea how to help her.
By the time we pull into The Haven, I’ve called ahead and a caregiver rushes out to help Miranda out of the SUV. I look closely at his build. He’s the gutter-cleaning stalker guy.
“Hey!” I jump down from my seat and run around the car. “Hey! Who are you?”
He steps back, wincing a bit. I guess he remembers me whapping the chair into his leg. Good. I like to give off a slightly terrifying vibe.
“Look, lady, I don’t know you.”
“I know you don’t. But I might just know something about you.” Miranda’s still fumbling with her seatbelt. “I think you were watching us for some reason. Are you working for someone?”
“Yeah, lady.” He points to the logo on his shirt, giving me a smug grin. “I work at The Haven. They’re my employers.”
Oh, no. You did not just get all snarky with the pregnant woman. I grab his shirt in my fist, judo moves from college replaying in my mind. I pull him inches from my face.
“Get this. IF you touch one hair on this woman’s head, I will hunt you down and kill you myself, in a very medieval, torturous way. So if you know something, now’s the time to come clean.” I feel my eyelids frozen in a wide-open position, no doubt adding to my deranged demeanor.
To my utter amazement, he answers, twisting back from my grip.
“Okay, okay! Listen, this chick wanted me to watch Mrs. Michaels. She wanted me to listen if she mentioned her old friend Rose. So when you two were outside talking, it was easy.”
“What did she look like?” I glance at the SUV. Miranda sits close to the window, her breath fogging it up. I can barely make out the quizzical look on her face.
“Maybe forties? Blondish hair. Hot.”
Men.
“Did you tell her anything?”
“Just that Mrs. Michaels has some pictures of Rose. That was all I caught.”
“Where did you meet?”
“Right here, lady. She works here on weekends. She’s a volunteer.”
24
~*~
December came in like a lion that year, outside and inside. One day, three feet of snow blocked Paul into our driveway. My skin crawled when I was around him, so I hid in my room all morning. Finally, around noon, I tried to sneak downstairs to grab something to eat.
He was sitting in my favorite chair, looking at my little red book.
I turned, ready to bolt up the stairs and lock my door.
He shouted at me. “Rose! What in the tarnations are you doing reading this thing? Where’d you get it? Looks like a library book?”
I swallowed several times. “It is. Miranda picked it up for me by accident.”
“It’s stamped three months ago. And why are all these pages folded down?”
I glared at him, trying to believe my own answers. “I have no idea. Where’d you find it? I thought I’d lost it.”
He stood, dropping the book to the chair. He pointed to my side table. “It was sitting right on this blessed table, Rose. You okay?”
The urge to scream almost overwhelmed me. Instead, I ran up to my room to hide. It seemed like all I ever did. Lie and hide.
My mother was waiting near my closet.
“I know, Mother. I’m going to do something about this, really soon.”
Paul’s sharp rap on my door made her disappear. “Who you talking to, Rose?”
~*~
The caregiver, who finally admits his name is Anthony, maneuvers Miranda out of the car, into her wheelchair, and down the hall to her suite in an admittedly gentle manner. He then books it out of her room, presumably to get a nurse.
Miranda doesn’t ask any questions about my shirt-grabbing interrogation technique. Her eyelids are drooping and she seems utterly depleted. She grabs my hand and squeezes it before the overly cheery nurse whisks her i
nto her room.
What did Anthony hear? I replay our conversation at that metal table. Miranda watching the tree, distracted. The gutter cleaning farce. Then, “You want a picture of Rose? I’ve got a whole album of them.”
I need to find that album and get it to a safe place before the hot blonde volunteer finds it. After all, that last note had no envelope, so it had to be an inside drop job. She would’ve had access—they keep a master key for each room in the main office. Would she have been able to switch Miranda’s meds, too?
Sidling up to the buffet drawers, I open one and glance in while the nurse works in the other room. How easy would it be for someone to walk in Miranda’s suite door? Half the time it’s not locked.
Finally, I lean over the couch to check a crowded bookshelf. I spot a black-bound album at the very bottom. When I walk around to pick it up, the nurse comes out, giving me an odd look. I smile, like I’m totally supposed to be doing this. “I’ll lock up for you,” I offer.
“Okay. Just tiptoe. She needs to sleep. Low blood pressure today. Did she have Thanksgiving dinner with you?”
“Yes. Sorry I didn’t get her back sooner.” I hold my stomach, and she seems to notice my pregnancy.
“Don’t you worry about that. She needs to get out every now and then. And not just with that Paul character, either.” She shakes her head.
Interesting way to refer to Miranda’s fiancé. “Does he come over all the time?”
“Not really, but I don’t know what she sees in him. He seems a hanger-on, you know. Lawsie knows she doesn’t need anybody hanging on to her in this condition.”
My thoughts exactly.
Once the nurse bustles away, I tug at the overstuffed album until the books on top of it finally release their grip. It’s getting dark in the suite, but I don’t want to turn on a light and wake the Grande Dame. I tuck my bulky plunder beneath my arm, pulling out my keychain. Miranda had a suite key made for me last year.
On the way out, I smile at the elderly people in the TV room. My heart goes out to them, all but abandoned on Thanksgiving. Perhaps I should contemplate having a brood of children, purely for the mercenary motive of having someone to look after me for life. I cover my baby with my hand, pleased to feel more of a bump. Nikki Jo will probably want to take me maternity clothes shopping as soon as it’s vaguely necessary.
I speed-walk across the quickly darkening parking lot. After my hunch about Anthony’s spying proved to be correct, it’s anyone’s guess who’s watching my every move.
Safe in my seat, I turn on the heat and flip the overhead light so I can peep into the album. Here’s hoping I snagged the right one.
A yellowed news clipping lies on the first page. It’s Russell’s obituary. The corners are worn. Miranda practically worshiped her first husband—why does she need another?
I flip through photos of a young Miranda and Russell, probably on their honeymoon to Niagara Falls. More pics of them draped around each other…then some baby pictures. Must be Miranda’s only child, Charlotte. Baby Charlotte is positively cute as a Gerber baby, but I have mixed feelings about grown-up Charlotte. I don’t even think she called her mother today.
The pictures of Rose are toward the very end. She poses in front of her flowerbeds, one of which is tightly planted with stalks of bell-shaped purple and white flowers. Exactly like the flowers in my vivid dream.
The look on Rose’s magazine-beautiful face strikes me as disingenuous. Sure, she’s offering a warm, full smile. But while her eyes are focused on the photographer, she’s not there. It’s as if she’s seeing something else entirely.
The last picture is taken on Rose’s front porch, leafless trees in the background. Rose leans over the railing, shielding her eyes from the sun. She wears slim pants and a fitted sweater. And her hand covers her stomach, mirroring the unmistakable protective gesture I make all the time.
Rose was pregnant. Did Miranda—
A movement catches my eye. I roll down the window and turn off the car, peering into the stark, bluish light of the parking lot. I feel someone staring at me, probably from the parked truck a couple cars to my left. Switching my knife from my pocket to my hand, I open the door and walk around my Escape to get a closer look.
Immediately, the black truck revs a couple of times and screeches out, but not before the streetlight illuminates a head-full of long blonde hair. I guess that spying volunteer was putting in some overtime.
25
~*~
Three nights in one week, Paul came home drunk. Not just drunk on his normal beer or whiskey. Drunk on moonshine.
I knew he’d hidden quite a few of his father’s moonshine jugs somewhere, but I’d never stumbled across them in the house. Since he was already half-delirious by the time he got through the door, I realized he’d stored them outside.
I didn’t dare go near him in such a condition. Instead, I hovered at the top of the stairs until he passed out on the couch. Then I went down and stripped off his coal-stained, often vomit-covered clothing and left him wearing nothing but his T-shirt and boxers. He was ruining the couch cushions.
It was painfully obvious to me that he’d started in on the moonshine the day after he’d heard me talking to my mother. I refused to feel guilty about it—after all, who can control appearances from the otherworld? For some reason, I’d received the privilege of seeing my mother again, of having her comfort and encourage me.
It wouldn’t take much—just a nudge, really—to get rid of my overbearing, interfering husband forever. Then I could live the way I wanted.
~*~
We spend most of Friday and Saturday at the big house, relaxing and noshing on leftovers. I positively crave Nikki Jo’s turkey noodle soup, helping myself to it about four times a day. Roger pronounces that it’s not me craving it, but the baby. With the combination of Nikki Jo’s soup, the cozy fireplace, and the velour couch, I’m feeling like a big baby myself.
The bear trap story is a huge hit with Andrew and his girlfriend. I’ve probably heard various incarnations of it every single day. Though it still freaks me out to know there are bears in our woods, I’m finally able to laugh about it.
On Saturday, Andrew and Kelsey bop off to hike, then to zipline in a state park. Thomas and I sit on the couch, pondering if we were ever that enthusiastic about life.
“We’re a couple fuddy-duds.” Thomas absently pulls on a longer piece of his blond bangs.
I elbow him. “Stop your moping around, old man.”
“I’m serious! We never do anything fun anymore. Andrew’s right, seems like I’m always working. I even have paperwork to do on the weekends now. And here you are, my gorgeous wife, in the prime of life…” He touches my face with the back of his hand, fingers slowly trailing down to my shoulder.
I snuggle my head onto his chest, waiting for that delicious moment when his heartbeat drowns out all other sounds in the world. After a couple minutes, I sigh. “I know…I am gorgeous, in the prime of my life.”
He laughs and puts his chin on my head. “Where’d you get that wicked sense of humor?”
I groan, shifting into a sitting position. He knows I don’t like questions about my family. Who knows what my genetics look like? Unlike Thomas, my family tree hasn’t been traced back to my mother country.
“Sorry.” Thomas leans in for a long, tender kiss.
“You’re forgiven.” I grin, running my hand along the light stubble on his chin. “Maybe we should go back to the cottage for the rest of our fuddy-dud Saturday?”
On our way out, we check in with Mom and Dad, who are attempting to string Christmas lights up the front porch pillars. As Dad starts taping them to the top with black electrical tape, Mom launches into a diatribe about how tacky it looks. Thomas pulls me down the steps and out of the fray.
Nikki Jo shouts, “You two are coming to church tomorrow, aren’t you? They’ll be doing the Thanksgiving meal after, and I know everyone will want to see you.”
Thomas cocks h
is eyebrow at me. I nod. Nikki Jo loves having her entire brood fill the pew for holidays at church.
~*~
Sunday morning, after I try on and discard no less than four separate outfits, Thomas reaches into my closet and pulls out my red dress.
“Just wear this and stop worrying about it.”
“People haven’t seen me for so long and my skirts don’t fit right and I look pale. Besides, I don’t have any black heels that aren’t all scuffed up.”
“Just wear boots or something. That dress looks astonishing on you—no one will be looking at your shoes.”
It occurs to me that he just wants to see me in the dress, so I oblige and put it on, along with my high-heeled black boots that seem a bit racy for church-wear.
“We’re late!” Thomas rocks in his corduroy sport-coat, checked shirt, and striped tie. It’s kind of a multi-pattern cool, like Doctor Who with his trailing scarves.
We manage to get to church just as they’re singing the end of Happy Birthday to You, for anyone who had birthdays this week. Nikki Jo pats the pew next to her and we slide in beside Andrew and Kelsey.
Andrew’s looking downright French in a black shirt and scarf combo. He’s also sporting a beret, probably in an attempt to distract from his ponytailed hair. I don’t think hats are allowed on men in church, but I guess no one’s asked him to remove it yet. Kelsey looks displaced in her leggings and fitted leather jacket. Sitting next to the two of them, I realize it didn’t matter what I wore.
Once the children’s Sunday school classes are dismissed, the adult class teacher takes the podium. He’s so young—probably in his early thirties. Yet he dives into the heavy topic of grief.
The group is eager to respond when he interjects questions, and it’s astounding what some of these honest people have to say. Many of them, from the oldest to the youngest, have experienced real grief, in its various forms. I think about my own griefs, such as they are. Namely, my parents. Who knows where my dad is? And my mom, who started selling pills the moment she got out of jail, only to land herself in prison. Where was she getting her prescriptions, anyway? It’s not like she had chronic pain.
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