All I Ever Wanted: Of Love and Madness, Book Three

by Cimms, Karen

  She’d spent the morning clearing away dead leaves and rotted mulch from the base of the beach roses and the flower beds. Resting on her rake, she filled her lungs with the organic scent of soil and the marshy ocean air. It was definitely there. A flutter. Not quite happiness, but a hint of its possibility. The sun warmed her upturned face. She might have even smiled as she went about her task, reveling in the stretch of unused muscles and the gentle ache in the back of her legs.

  Charlie, too, had taken to his new home. After spending the earlier part of the day chasing squirrels and chipmunks, he’d stretched out over the warm pavers near the pool for a well-deserved nap.

  Over the scratching of her rake, she heard a car door slam. Charlie’s head popped up. He flew up the stairs to the upper deck, where he jumped and barked and spun in circles, ignoring Kate’s commands. Another door slammed, followed by the thud of a trunk closing.

  “Come here,” she demanded. He didn’t even glance in her direction.

  Typical.

  She dropped her rake and slipped into the house, locking the patio doors behind her, and sped upstairs and into the kitchen. She slid open the door from the dining room, reached out, and yanked Charlie inside by the scruff of his neck.

  From the mudroom, she could see two cars and two men in the driveway next door unloading items from the first car. Tom had said someone lived there part-time, and the men were taking items from the car, not loading them into it.

  She slumped against the wall. The neighbor. Someone who had every right to be there.

  The rest of the neighborhood had ignored her thus far. Hopefully the new arrival would do the same.

  * * *

  The neighbor seemed in no hurry to meet her, and since Kate remained barricaded in the house or within the fenced yard most of the time, she didn’t run into him accidentally either.

  She was in the laundry room, about to turn on the dryer, when someone knocked on the front door.

  “C’mon Kate.” She scolded her pounding heart. “It’s ten o’clock. Murderers don’t usually knock.”

  Sure they could.

  Barking and carrying on as if he knew for certain a murderer was standing on the porch, Charlie came flying through the hall. He slid across the slate foyer and slammed full force into the front door with a thud. So much for making believe she wasn’t home.

  Another knock, harder this time.

  She grabbed Charlie by the collar and pushed him into the laundry room, then pulled the door shut. Frantic, he jumped and clawed at the door from the inside. His nails, which should have been trimmed a long time ago, were probably doing a number on the woodwork. He needed a visit to the vet. And maybe a shock collar.

  The knocking continued. Relentless, whoever it was.

  “Yes?” she called through the door.

  “Hello?” The voice belonged to a man. She stepped back and stared at the door as if she’d suddenly developed X-ray vision.

  “Can I help you?” She double-checked the dead bolts.

  “Anybody home?”

  Was he deaf or trying to be funny? “Can I help you?” she asked, louder in case it was the former.

  “Hello!” he called again.

  “Good grief,” she said out loud, although not loud enough for anyone to hear, and certainly not the deaf man on the other side of her door.

  “Who is it?” she yelled.

  “Harold!”

  She made a face at the door. “Harold who?”

  “Why are we yelling?”

  “Harold who?” she yelled again.

  “Your neighbor!”

  She figured that, but still wasn’t about to open the door.

  “I’m sorry.” She lowered her voice a bit, although with the racket coming from the laundry room, he might not hear her after all. “I just got out of the shower. I can’t open the door right now.”

  “Sorry. Just wanted to apologize for not coming sooner and introducing myself.”

  “That’s okay. Thank you.” The yelling was hurting her head and her throat.

  “I’m Harold!”

  “Nice to meet you, Harold.”

  “And?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You are?”

  Wanting to be left alone. There was no way out of this. She would be polite, then, but that didn’t mean she had to be social.

  “Kate. It’s nice to meet you, Harold. I have to get ready to go out. I have an appointment. Thanks for stopping by!”

  Nothing. She pressed her ear against the door.

  “Hello?” she called.

  “Hello?” he answered.

  Oh, for crying out loud. “I have to get ready.”

  “See you later.”

  Not if I can help it.

  * * *

  “Did you feel threatened?” Liz asked after Kate shared her encounter with Harold.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but it was unexpected and . . .” Kate toyed with the hem of her sweater. “Yeah, I did. It’s like I’ve made no progress whatsoever.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Liz leaned back in her chair. Kate liked when they spoke like this. It was more like a conversation and less like she was being picked apart to see how she ticked. “But let’s talk about next time.”

  “Next time?” Of course there would be a next time. “Muzzle the dog?”

  She was only half joking.

  “We’re all hard-wired with a fight or flight response to dangerous situations. It’s how the species has survived. Because you have post-traumatic stress disorder, you’re having a difficult time determining the difference between a real life-threatening event and what you perceive to be life-threatening. When someone experiences the type of trauma or traumas you have, it isn’t always possible to look at the whole picture and use all of your resources to determine what to do next. It’s like tunnel vision. Something is happening, and you aren’t able to depend on usual logic to guide you. We have to work on getting past that so you can make an informed decision as to whether or not your life is in danger.”

  It sounded simple, but in practice, it was anything but.

  “When you heard that knock on the door, what could you have done differently?”

  Kate snorted.

  “What?” Liz asked.

  “It’s ridiculous. Who thinks their life is threatened by a knock on the door unless they live in a crack house or something?” She stared at the grain of the dark mahogany coffee table in front of her. “I’m crazy.” Her voice was so low she was surprised that Liz answered.

  “You’re not crazy. You’re trying to heal from a traumatic event. You’ll get there.”

  She swung her foot so frantically her entire body vibrated. Would she? Would she ever feel normal again? She absentmindedly traced a pattern on the upholstery of her chair.

  “I guess I could’ve looked out the window.”

  “And if the person didn’t appear threatening?”

  “Ask who it is?”

  “And?”

  Her gut said go hide, but logic had a different answer. “I guess if the person didn’t seem threatening, which in my case seems like a long shot, I could open the door.”

  This was where Liz was leading her, but her mind went in another direction. The next time she saw Shane, she would ask him to install a storm door with a lock. That way, even if she did open the door, there would be a locked door between her and whoever was on the other side.

  “Kate?”

  Her head snapped up. “I’m sorry?”

  “Then what?”

  “Honestly?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d be polite, but I’m not ready to engage. I’m not ready, and I don’t want to.”

  A small frown registered on Liz’s face. “That’s honest. We’ll work on that.”

  That, and about a million other things.

  Chapter Ten

  The way she startled, anyone might have thought Kate had heard a gunshot. It was only a knock on the door, but it set her heart—and Ch
arlie—racing. The clock on the mantel was about to strike five o’clock.

  She closed her book and stood.

  Ask who it is.

  She made her way to the front door.

  Look through the window. If they don’t appear threatening, open the door.

  “You’re a certified nut job,” she muttered aloud. She grabbed Charlie by the collar and cuffed him affectionately on his head.

  “Who is it?”

  “Harold. Your neighbor. I have something for you.”

  She rested her forehead against the heavy wooden door. With a shaky hand, she flipped the two dead bolts and gripped the doorknob tightly. Opening the door would be taking a giant step toward normalcy.

  Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

  She cracked the door open a few inches. The man standing on her porch had to be well into his seventies, but his tanned skin was almost as smooth as her own. His hair was more salt than pepper, and a bead of white was visible along his forehead and temples, indicating a recent haircut. He wasn’t tall, just a couple of inches taller than her perhaps. He looked as if he had stepped out of an L.L. Bean catalog: woodsy brown barn jacket, khakis, and the iconic rubber boots. She had the same pair sitting in the mudroom. She even had the same jacket, only hers was a deep pine.

  Swell. She was now dressing like a seventy-some-year-old man.

  “Yes?”

  “Hey there,” Harold said, only it sounded like they-ya. “I brought you some lobster.” Lob-stah.

  “Thank you, but I don’t eat lobster. I don’t like fish.”

  “This isn’t fish.” He flashed a wry smile. “It’s lobstah. That’s seafood.”

  “I don’t like fish or seafood.”

  “Have you ever tried it?”

  “No, but—”

  “Here you go, then.” He shoved a doubled plastic grocery bag in her direction. “You can’t live in Maine and not eat lobster.”

  What was that? The state motto?

  He held the bag aloft and although she kept shaking her head, he didn’t back down. They could either stand there all afternoon, or she could take the bag. Between Charlie trying to knock her out of the way and wanting her neighbor to disappear, she had no choice but to accept it.

  With a wink, he spun around and headed back across the lawn.

  “Wait!” she cried, holding the bag in one hand and Charlie’s collar in the other.

  He raised his hand above his head and gave her a little wave. She had been dismissed.

  What the hell was she supposed to do with a lobster?

  She yanked Charlie inside and closed the door. It was at that moment that whatever was in the bag announced it was still very much alive and in a hurry to get out.

  “Oh, dear god.”

  She rushed into the kitchen, dropped the bag into the sink, and took a step backward. Rising onto her toes, she gingerly pulled the bag open with a pair of kitchen tongs.

  “Oh, shit.”

  There were two creatures inside, writhing and stepping over each other, each determined to climb out. The only thing slowing them down was the seaweed tangled in their enormous claws and the thick blue rubber bands that kept them from snapping at each other. Or her. They glared up at her with beady, stalk-like eyes, their antennae waving angrily.

  Ugh.

  She’d seen lobsters before. They were bright red and came on a plate with a ramekin of melted butter on the side. Or they were swimming in a large tank at Red Lobster. They didn’t show up at your front door, uninvited, in a plastic bag from Hannaford’s. The smell of steamed lobster had always turned her stomach, and it seems they smelled no better when they were fresh, either. And the longer they languished in her kitchen sink, the worse that smell was going to get.

  Being out of the water hadn’t slowed them down much. Too bad she couldn’t just sneak back over to Harold’s and leave them on his front porch—or better yet, send them back where they came from.

  The bag shifted ominously.

  Why couldn’t she send them back?

  She slipped on her jacket and tugged on her boots. From the living room, she grabbed the large fireplace tongs. Carefully, she threaded the bag handles over the end of the tongs. She stuck a pair of poultry shears in her pocket, then carefully headed down the path to the water, mindful of the pulsing, gyrating bag.

  Dusk had fallen, and although it was growing darker, she was afraid to move too quickly. She descended the ramp and stepped out onto the dock. It swayed gently. She waited for it to steady, set the bag down, and pulled it open with the tongs.

  Nothing happened.

  She peered into the bag. It was safe to pick them up with the bands on. People did it all the time. Still, the thought of touching a lobster’s cold, hard body gave her the heebie-jeebies.

  She used the tongs to pull the bag open wider. Again, nothing.

  “You guys couldn’t wait to get out back there in my kitchen. C’mon. Shoo!”

  They were no longer in a hurry.

  She planted her feet, opened the tongs, and tried to grasp the lobster nearest her around the middle. It stretched its large claw toward her, and she jumped. The dock bobbed up and down. When it stilled, she tried again, standing behind the bag this time against the unlikely event the creature decided to charge her.

  “Better safe than sorry,” she mumbled.

  This time, she was successful. Gripping the lobster with the fireplace tongs, she held it only high enough to remove it from the bag. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the shears, then carefully snipped the first rubber band. The thing twisted and lurched toward her, waving its claw. At the same moment, the other decided to make a break for it.

  Kate stumbled backwards and accidentally flipped the first lobster into the water. It sank like a rock.

  She peered over the edge of the dock. Returning the lobsters to the water had been her goal, but not with the bands still on. What if the thing couldn’t defend itself with just one good claw?

  His partner appeared bound to reenter the water on his own terms. She sidled around behind it, grasped it firmly with the tongs, and moved closer to the edge of the dock, where she carefully snipped the rubber bands on each claw. Once freed, it opened and closed them as if stretching luxuriously. She held it out and dropped it into the rippling tide.

  “Look after your handicapped friend,” she said. “Seems I’ve left him just as half-assed as everything else I touch.”

  Chapter Eleven

  It had been weeks since Kate had awakened sweating and shaking from one of her dreams. While the details of this one slipped away as soon as she opened her eyes, she couldn’t shake the pervasive sense of impending doom. She shivered, not sure if it was from the sudden chill of the cool spring air against her damp skin or the fear that washed over her.

  Pale strips of dusky light peeked from beyond the curtains she’d hung and into the darkened room. She glanced at the clock. It wasn’t quite five thirty.

  She pulled on her robe and stumbled to the kitchen. She didn’t feel threatened. There had been no noises or thumps in the night. There was nothing wrong as far as she could see, but what if something was wrong elsewhere? Like at home?

  There would be no falling back to sleep, that much was clear. While the coffee brewed, she stood at the wall of windows and watched the sun climb above the trees, turning the sky different shades of pink and orange. Despite its beauty, the unsettled feeling remained.

  At the stroke of eight, she called Tom.

  “You’re lucky you caught me. I was just about to step into the shower. Everything okay?”

  She gnawed on the pad of her thumb. “I had a bad dream.”

  He was quiet.

  “Not just a bad dream. Sorry. I have lots of those. This was different.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. I woke up with a bad feeling, and . . . Is everything okay?”

  “I guess. What do you mean?”

  “Is everyone okay? The kids? Are they
okay?”

  “As far as I know.”

  Poor Tom. What a burden she’d become. But even though she realized it, she couldn’t help asking him for more. “Could you check? Please? I know I told you not to tell me anything unless it’s an emergency, but I woke up with this feeling—”

  “How about I give Devin and Rhiannon a call later? Just check in and see how they’re doing. Would that help?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

  “No problem. I’ll call after I get to the office.”

  “And Tom?”

  “Yes?”

  As much as she hated to bring it up, she couldn’t help it. She had to know he was okay. “Billy, too.”

  * * *

  By the time Tom called back, it was late afternoon. Kate answered on the first ring.

  “I’m sorry it took so long,” Tom said. “Rhiannon never ans—”

  “No specifics, please. Are they all right?”

  After a few beats of silence, he answered. “Yes. Fine.”

  She felt like shit. “Tommy, I’m sorry. That was rude. I just don’t think I’m ready to hear any details. My head is still firmly lodged in the sand, and I’m not ready to pull it out. Just knowing everyone is okay is enough. For now.”

  “You know what’s best.”

  “I don’t. But I’m getting there.”

  * * *

  There was a small market in Falmouth, Gehring’s, where Kate went when she needed anything between Shane’s shopping trips. The prices were high, but it was never crowded.

  Hearing from Tom that her family was fine had settled her spirit. And for the first time in a long while, she was hungry. Really hungry. Soup just wouldn’t cut it. So she donned her sunglasses and a baseball cap and headed to Falmouth.

  She selected a small steak and some fresh asparagus, then dallied over a bottle of Sancerre. She was no longer on medication. There was no reason she couldn’t have a little wine. How else would she know if she could drink responsibly? She tucked the wine in her basket, along with some coffee creamer and butter.

  She unloaded her items onto the worn, wooden counter and waited for the clerk to finish with the customer before her. A display of handmade soap wrapped in fancy cream vellum and fixed with a seal of colorful washi tape was artfully arranged near the register. She plucked several from the basket and sniffed. The first had a spicy orange scent, and she set it on the counter with her other purchases. The next smelled like bayberry—too Christmasy. The last one took her breath away, although it shouldn’t have. Lemongrass was common.