Marry in Haste

by Susan Van Kirk

  “Great. I figure I’ll start next week.”

  “Sounds good. By then the kitchen should be peaceful.” I hope, she thought.

  Will Folger, Conrad’s brother, brushed past Grace, smiled, and walked into Conrad’s office. Grace followed him in, glancing up at his slightly stooped shoulders. He walked in a jittery manner, as if his nerves were tightly wired. Curly, light-brown hair fell slightly over the collar of his shirt, and Grace saw he was carrying some folders. Looking past him, she watched Jeff and Conrad shake hands, the official signing over.

  “Conrad, when you’re finished here, I need to see you on an urgent matter,” Will said.

  “Jeff, this is my brother, Will, who is a vice president at the bank. Will, Jeff Maitlin, the editor of the Endurance Register, and now a happy loan recipient of the bank.”

  After another round of handshakes, Grace and Jeff turned to leave, but not before Grace noticed Will whisper something to Conrad that caused the bank president’s face to darken.

  Conrad broke away from the conversation quickly to say, “Oh, Jeff. By the way, I’m having a dinner for several couples and a poker party for some of the bank managers and a few men friends. Just a small group. Why don’t you and Grace stop over too? It’ll be on the sixth around seven. You do play poker, don’t you?”

  “Sure. Love to. Maybe I can win enough to make a payment on this loan. But we can’t make dinner. We have some plans earlier in the evening. Thanks for the dinner invitation. I’d like to stop by for poker, though. Around nine or so?”

  “I’d say make it nine-thirty. It’s a friendly game, right, Will?”

  “Sure,” his brother said, smiling. “Mostly Conrad and I try to best each other and not do too much collateral damage.”

  As Jeff and Grace left, he closed the door, but not before they both heard a gruff urgency in Will’s voice. Jeff turned to her and whispered, “Is it my imagination, or should I be worried about borrowing money from a bank full of anxious people?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Emily Folger stepped into the warm, scented water, tentatively at first. Biting her scarred lip, she immersed herself in her bath, relieved Conrad and the children were gone for the day. She sat perfectly still and listened. Silence. Conrad had hustled the children off to school, dropping them on his way to work. She could hear her pulse pound at the thought of her husband. Looking down at her arms, she examined the bruises that were healing just in time for the new ones. This time what was it? Oh, the dishes weren’t in the right place in the dishwasher. If only I could do things better, she thought. If only I could remember and think about what I’m supposed to do. She winced as the warm water washed over her arms and lower back. This time he’d used his belt, the first object that came to hand. Her chin trembled, and she clasped her hands.

  Carefully, she straightened her back. I need to get dinner ready early tonight, as soon as he gets home. Cook something special, something he likes. Maybe veal cutlets. He’s had a lot of stress lately. She passed her hand over her forehead as if it would help her think better. And I have to plan and shop for his poker game and dinner. I need to ask him for more money for the alcohol. Emily’s pulse raced faster, and her stomach knotted. How to get him to see that? She stared out the window into the backyard and a single tear slid down her face. She grimaced and clenched her jaw at the thought of asking for the money.

  Flinching, she gently washed the purplish bruises on her arms. I didn’t read his face right this time. How could I be so dumb? She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. I can’t seem to focus these days. Stupid me. She heard a noise, and, startled, looked up at the window, but she didn’t hear anything else. No car door. No footsteps on the gravel. He’d stop by the house at various times of day, and she knew the sound of his car door closing. When she heard that door shut, she’d try to stop shaking and look like she was cleaning the kitchen or folding laundry. Anything to use her hands so he wouldn’t notice her trembling. He hated weakness. This time she must have imagined the door. Letting out a slow, deep breath, she tried to control her anxiety, slow her breathing.

  “Go ahead. Call the police,” he’d said, in his scary, deadly quiet voice she had grown to fear. “Who would believe you?” Conrad crossed his arms, and his face broke into its usual belittling smirk. He was right, of course, like always. Then she remembered the time they talked about her getting a part-time job. “Why do you think you need money? I’m a bank president, for God’s sake. How would it look in the community to have people see my wife working? If you need money, just ask me for it.” Then he swept all her perfume bottles off her vanity and glared at her as they fell to the floor, breaking into jagged pieces, their sharp, fragrant odors a stark contrast to the dark silence.

  She leaned down, groaned slightly, and began washing her legs, ankles, feet. Sometimes it was harder to bend, but today her lower back was feeling not too bad. What day is it? she thought. Thursday? Friday? The poker party and dinner. Which day was that? Is this a day Conrad comes home for lunch? She bit her lip. At such a fearful thought, she cautiously pulled herself out of the tub and slouched into her bathrobe. Her chest tightened, and she rubbed her forehead.

  Sitting down at her vanity, she brushed her hair and cringed as her hairbrush stroked the soft spot where he had pulled out a handful of hair. Her head still hurt a little, but she could comb some hair over so the bald spot wouldn’t be noticeable. She stared at her blue eyes. Her eyelashes looked thinner than they used to. Was she imagining it? She blinked her eyes several times and stared again. She stopped her hairbrush in mid-air. Her hair—the shiny, gold, thick tresses—was now thin, drooping, and dry. Maybe she should go see Judy, her beautician. No. It had been so long since she’d had her hair done, and Judy would wonder why her hair was in such disarray. She couldn’t think of what else she could do.

  She stared down at the pale-pink hairbrush—a gift from her mother. Emily brooded about her parents. They’d been married fifty years. Never had there been a divorce in the Petersen family. Never. Her parents were only a few hours away, but it might as well be continents. She thought about her mother’s advice: “You marry, you stay married, through thick and thin. If your marriage is not working right, you figure out a way to change it.” Emily stared in the mirror without seeing. Change it, she thought. She knew it must be her fault—the bruises, and the sore back. She forgot so many things lately. I’ll call my sister-in-law and get her to tell me the date of the dinner, she thought. Darlene will know.

  Perhaps Conrad’s day at work would go well, and he’d be happier tonight. Maybe she could get him to forgive her for her stupidity. He was right, of course. He was better at making the decisions. She kept forgetting.

  Suddenly her brush stopped as if it had remembered something. The poker party. Alcohol. She involuntarily shuddered. She knew what that meant. One time when he drank too much, she heard all about how she had to quit her volunteer job at the hospital because she needed to be home for him and the kids. She quit, despite the pleas of her mentor to stay. The patients loved her and looked forward to her volunteer day each week. She discarded the thought and moved on to a volunteer job as room mother in Caitlin’s class at school. It lasted a month before Conrad heard in town about his wife and told her to stop. That night he went through half a bottle of whiskey and, well, she didn’t want to think about it. After that he was more careful and didn’t break any bones resulting in a trip to the emergency room and awkward questions.

  Maybe he’ll be happier when he comes home tonight, she thought, trying to fortify herself.

  She jumped at the peal of the front doorbell. Carefully slipping down the upstairs hallway, she stole a peek out the corner of the living room window, and recognized the van from the local flower shop in the driveway. She slumped and sagged against the wall in relief. Then she lurched to the bedroom and tugged on a sweater and sweatpants. Moving down the stairs as quickly as her bruises would allow, she cautiously opened the front door.

&nbs
p; “Hi, Ms. Folger. Got a delivery here. Man, the guy must love you a lot.”

  “Thanks, Jim,” she said. She took the roses and added, “Yes, Conrad certainly is thoughtful, isn’t he?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Grace Kimball stared at the façade of The Depot, a restaurant her former students had opened while she was in Arizona. Endurance had always been a railroad town, and the brick building on south Main Street was perfect for a restaurant. Some of the brick came from the old depot, saved by quite a few people in town when the historic building closed and was eventually razed. A vintage clock stood on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, as well as an old-time lamp with three globes. The restaurant’s name, in gold, old-fashioned letters, was painted on an oval-shaped wooden sign, and a wooden handcart, used to move passengers’ luggage, leaned against the wall. Her former students, Abbey and Camilla, had been working on this project since late summer.

  She walked into the restaurant, spotting her friends immediately, but before going over to them, she studied the new décor. Recessed lighting was easy on the eyes and it was aided by skylights, which helped the plants in the hanging pots. One whole wall was comprised of original brick from a building that had seen over a hundred years of history. The predominant colors were dark green and white throughout the room, contrasting nicely with the faded red brick. Booths lined the walls, and tables sat through the middle of the space. An old-style wooden bench from the train station sat at the front of the room where people could sit while waiting for tables. All along the walls were signs from railroad stations in various locations. Jeff had told her Abbey and Camilla planned to hire some college art students to paint a train mural with historical events from the town’s history on the back wall. The kitchen must be in the back, Grace thought, because she could see flames rise from the far side of the room through the window in the kitchen door.

  She hung up her coat and scarf and went over to a table where her friends were waiting as they silently studied menus. TJ Sweeney, Deb O’Hara, and Jill Cunningham often met Grace for lunch, and all of them agreed this might be their new “go to” place. Grace had studied the new restaurant’s menu in the newspaper ads. She thought the house salad with candied pecans, apples, and crumbled goat cheese would be a good start. But the menu also included historical references to The Ties that Bind (French fries), a Santa Fe Salad, the Burlington Northern Quesadilla, the Depot Steak, a Train Wreck Burger, a Porter’s Delight, and a Conductor’s Special. Deb O’Hara had mentioned to Grace that the owners planned to have a wild mushroom celebration in April.

  “This should keep ya happy,” Abbey Parker said, as she placed multiple dishes in front of TJ Sweeney, Endurance’s only female police detective. TJ pulled in her chair, grabbed a fork, and dug in like she hadn’t eaten in three days. Her dark, shiny hair glowed, reflecting the light just above their table. She had olive skin, which turned the head of more than one guy as she walked down the street—a gift from her white father and black mother. “And here are your extra fries, Detective Sweeney.”

  “Sorry, Grace. Had to order early because I’m due back at the office soon.”

  Grace smiled at TJ, her best pal. The detective had been in Grace’s high school English class, and Grace had mentored her and convinced her to go to college. TJ not only graduated from the state university with honors, but she also blew away the Endurance police exam and forced the male power structure to hire her. By last summer, TJ had moved up the ranks to detective and solved several murders. Because Grace had become involved in the whole ghastly situation, the harrowing experience had also proved TJ and Grace had each other’s backs.

  The rest of them ordered their lunches from Abbey while TJ worked on hers.

  “How did the big paper signing go this morning?” TJ asked, before she shoved a sweet potato fry in her mouth.

  “Very uneventful,” Grace replied. Then she remembered, and her voice became animated. “Oh, no. Not uneventful. We heard some sort of big skirmish in Folger’s office just before we went in, and some blond woman came out ready to take the place down. I have no idea what that was about.”

  They caught up on news and then Abbey brought their food, placing multiple dishes on the table, and left in a hurry. “I’ll come back and talk in a minute, Ms. Kimball. Right now I’m just rushed.” Then TJ returned to the story from the bank.

  “We didn’t get any calls at the police department from the bank.”

  “Conrad played it down,” said Grace. “Said she didn’t qualify for a loan.”

  “Did you know this blond woman?” asked Deb O’Hara. She leaned in toward her friends and said, “I do occasionally hear whispers and rumors about Conrad Folger.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Grace murmured. She looked over Jill Cunningham’s shoulder toward the open doorway, as Folger, his brother, Will, and two other bank employees walked in, allowing a stream of cold air to whip over the tables. Grace watched them swagger past her and her friends, laughing loudly at something one of them had said, and navigating toward a table near the back of the restaurant. She also looked across the room at Abbey and was surprised to see her eyes glaring at Folger, her hands balled up into fists. Then the men pulled out chairs and hung up coats and hats on a coat tree in a corner. As quickly as the noisy entrance began, it ended on a quieter note: they sat down and sorted through table mats, silverware, and menus.

  “That’s quite a group,” Jill ventured. “They have the strut down perfectly that says ‘boys’ club’ and ‘we own the place.’ ”

  “Maybe they do,” answered Grace. “It’s likely Abbey and Camilla borrowed money from Folger’s bank to get their restaurant started. I think Jeff told me they plan to have an official grand opening in a couple of weeks. I’m glad the two of them managed to pull this off. Abbey has always wanted a restaurant of her own, and Camilla is an amazing cook. I hope they can make a go of it.” She continued to observe Abbey, who had turned and stomped back to the kitchen, thrusting the door open so hard she nearly struck one of the waitresses.

  “If these sweet potato fries are any indication of their new menu, they won’t have any problem,” Deb added. “Here, Grace, try one,” she said, pulling it from her plate. “Yum. Now I need a margarita to go with them.”

  “Fantastic,” Grace replied, and watched as Abbey brought more plates. “You know, I’ve noticed, since I came back from Arizona, that everyone looks so pale and depressed,” Grace ventured, taking a bite of Deb’s sweet potato fry. “Mmmm. Those are good!”

  “You have to remember winter in the Midwest—gray skies, seasonal affective disorder, and disgust with the wind, cold, and ice,” Jill answered crisply. Jill Cunningham was an accountant, and her world was a black and white, factual place. She ran two miles every morning, snow, rain, or shine, and her red, curly hair bounced as she walked. Fishing a piece of chicken out of her noodle soup with her spoon, she scooped it into her mouth, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Mmm.”

  “Not everyone has hibernated because of the weather,” said TJ. “Just before Christmas break, five of the frat guys from Endurance College were out racing on the lake ice north of town, and a piece of the ice broke off and stranded them in the middle of the lake. The thermometer said ten degrees. It’s good one of them could find his cell phone and still have the wits and unfrozen fingers to dial for help. Put quite a few people out since a helicopter from Woodbury had to rescue them. Evidently, they were still full of ‘anti-freeze’ and thought they were on some television reality show. Their interview on WHOC was hilarious because they were still drunk, and all they wanted to know was if they’d been voted off the island.”

  “Geez. To be that young and stupid,” Jill said. She waved a hand and dismissed the college generation.

  “Who’s the waitress over there? I don’t recognize her, and I thought I knew most of the people in town. Grace? Was she one of your students?” Deb asked.

  Grace turned around and took a surreptitious look at the waitress. She was i
n profile, taking an order from a table a few yards away. Quite a stunner, she had dark red hair and, despite her standard issue waitress uniform, a voluptuous look about her. Grace also noted a decidedly competent air to her mannerisms. Slowly, she turned back around. “I don’t know her.”

  “My, my,” said TJ. “The guys in the place are sure eyeing her.” She glanced around the room at the admiring looks directed toward the newcomer.

  “No wonder. In a town the size of Endurance we don’t see new faces often. And she is quite attractive,” Deb answered. “That red hair is gorgeous.”

  Grace studied the restaurant. Abbey scurried back and forth with plates, and another young woman, whom Grace remembered from high school, carried trays and glasses. Across the room, the red-haired waitress finished up an order and headed toward the back to place it with the kitchen. Grace guessed Camilla was in the back, cooking, with at least two of her henchwomen, and she could see tops of heads moving behind the window in the door separating the kitchen from the eating area. Occasionally, the cooks placed plates of steaming food on the top of the counter just outside the kitchen door, waiting for the waitresses to scoop them up. Grace noticed Janice Binderson picking up plates to deliver to customers. Janice. I remember her speech on how to make hand-tossed pizza dough. Cynthia Moore, self-crowned queen of the cheerleading squad, was in the front row. Just as Janice was tossing the dough into the air, the fire alarm went off, the pizza dough went flying, and it landed in Cynthia’s blond, perfectly coiffed hair. Janice never had much sense of focus. Suddenly, Grace was called back from her memories by Jill’s voice.

  “I like the menu and the theme they came up with for the place,” said Jill. “The Depot.” Her voice turned quiet and she sighed. “Too bad it isn’t there anymore.”