It would never happen again, she reasoned, and it wasn’t so terrible—it wasn’t like they were married yet, thankfully.
But she had to give him something. It was the least she could do.
“I decided to quit working at the woodshop.” Intertwining her fingers with his, she went on before she could change her mind. “And I promise I’ll never see Clay again.”
* * *
Charlene’s pledge didn’t make Ben as happy as if she’d decided to move back to Woodfield, but it came close. She also agreed to stay with him a few days if his mom allowed it.
Surprisingly, she did. So Charlene slept in the guest room and she and Ben filled their days with wedding plans, board games, TV, and—thanks to the new wheelchair his dad procured the very next day—they went for “walks” together. They also went to church, where she went to confession with a heavy heart and left with her soul cleansed and renewed, ready to face life with a fresh start.
When she called Sam to give him her resignation, he said he was sorry to see her go. She couldn’t read his voice, but she hoped he and Clay had had a good long talk and were well on their way to working things out, but she didn’t ask; and, of course, Sam didn’t volunteer the information. He thanked her sincerely for the months she’d been there. “It made a difference, and we’re back on our feet now.”
His last words made her wince as she thought of Ben. He wasn’t making any more progress, and he seriously doubted he’d ever be back on his feet.
She wept tears over that, late at night, but she didn’t give up praying for a miracle.
* * *
Back in Creekside, Charlene went job-hunting and ended up with a position at Fannie’s Fabrics. She found she missed the smell of sawdust and varnish, but the agreeable scent of crisp new cotton compensated somewhat. And Fannie was a delightful, grandmotherly woman, always trying to interest her in knitting, crocheting, quilting, and crafting.
Charlene signed up for online classes to continue working toward her library science degree. Then, because she couldn’t get the idea out of her head, she researched online and ended up ordering a rosary making kit, one with black plastic beads and crucifixes.
The days passed, the heat waves of August gave way to the glowing colors of autumn, and Brook’s pregnancy began to show, her belly swelling like a little October pumpkin.
While they’d settled into a routine, it was slightly strange being roommates. For the most part, they avoided each other. Brook’s cheeks became rosier and she looked content and healthy. Occasionally, Charlene glimpsed Clay picking her up in his truck outside the apartment, but he never came inside. She wondered if he ever brought her tailgating under the stars.
At last, she tucked the little wooden bench carving away in the back of a drawer, behind the towel she’d brought to the beach that warm day so long ago.
The best thing about the passage of time was that her hair was growing. Little by little, but it was something.
* * *
Hangers clicked together as the woman’s fingers glided over the soft clothes, rifling through, imagining, coveting. So many things, so many beautiful things for her little one, if she only had the money. Stores like this taunted, with their jacked-up prices and ludicrous lists of “essentials” that made having a baby rank up there with impossible privileges of the rich and famous.
Of course, most first-time moms were at least granted the luxury of a baby shower.
But not her.
She sniffed.
She had no family to throw her one. No true friends, either. No one cared enough. Not even her man.
Pain stabbed. The baby punched.
Her man thought he could just deny the truth. But she didn’t blame him. He was bewitched by the conniving girl.
No matter. He’d have to face the truth soon enough. They both would.
Paternity tests don’t lie.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Exculpate? That’s not a word,” Ben scoffed when Charlene finished playing her Scrabble tiles.
“So bring on the dictionary.”
Ben pulled out his phone and searched online. “‘Exculpate. To clear from a charge of guilt or fault; vindicate.’” He exhaled and spread his hands. “How do you know this stuff ?”
She shrugged. “I read a lot.”
“You retain a lot.”
“Should have known better than to challenge me,” she teased. “My turn again.” She studied her letter rack.
“Exculpate,” Ben muttered, shaking his head.
After she won the game, she began dropping tiles back in the pouch. “I’ve been thinking.”
When she paused, he urged, “About . . . ?”
“About . . . maybe moving back.”
His eyes lit up. “Yeah?” His eagerness was evident, and so was his hesitance as his hand stilled, no longer collecting tiles. She could tell he didn’t want to push her too hard.
Her heart softened. “I was thinking maybe you could help me look for a place, if you want.”
“Of course I want.” He moved closer and kissed her.
She tried to relax, but her lips refused. She didn’t enjoy Ben’s kisses any more. She wanted to, but every time his lips touched hers, guilt and unworthiness battered her heart. Tell him, tell him, had become a constant, internal chant.
She drew back and pulled in a deep breath. “I have to tell you something.”
He rested his forehead on hers, his skin warm. Eyes clear and undisturbed.
She eased away and wiped her damp palms along the fabric of her skirt. “It’s about that night, back in July . . . when you were attacked.”
His smile faded and his eyes clouded. “Yeah? What about it?”
“I was with Clay that night. And I kissed him.”
Ben’s face reacted with the barest twitch of a muscle. He waited in silence, as if expecting her to detract the words. As if she were pulling a tasteless prank.
“I’m sorry,” she went on. “I shouldn’t have done it. I don’t know what I was thinking. But nothing else happened, I promise, and—”
“Get out.”
She startled as Ben pushed fiercely from the table and wheeled to the front door. She hurried after him. “Ben, please. I’m so sorry. It was so wrong of me. I know that.”
His neck muscles pulled and his nostrils flared. He opened the door. “Get. Out.”
Her lip trembling, she turned and did as he said.
* * *
A lonely week later, her phone vibrated on her nightstand. She snatched it up, but saw it wasn’t Ben responding to her numerous messages. It was his mom.
Doubting her wisdom, she accepted the call. “Hello?’
“Charlene?” Mrs. Jorgensen’s voice was low, as if she didn’t want to be overheard. “What happened between you two? Ben isn’t speaking and he’s barely come out of his room. I’m going crazy with worry. Is the wedding off ?”
“I don’t know.” Charlene pinched a corner of her shirt and worked it, twisting and pulling. “It’s up to Ben.”
“You need to fix this.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“Did you cheat on him?”
Charlene dropped onto her bed. Her eyes scanned the ceiling as she fumbled for words. “I can’t talk about this with you. This is between me and Ben.”
A loud, disgusted sniff hit her ears. “You don’t deserve him. You never have.” Mrs. Jorgensen hung up.
* * *
On a late October morning two weeks later, Charlene crossed paths with Brook as she snagged breakfast in the kitchen.
With one hand, Brook held a bagel to her mouth, but it paused as her other hand went to rest on the curve of her shirt stretched tight over her belly. “The baby’s moving.”
“Really? Wow, did that just start?” Charlene asked to be polite. Brook had never actually announced the pregnancy, making the situation awkward. If she hadn’t overheard her informing her ex-boyfriend on the Fourth of July, Charlene woul
d have naïvely thought Brook was merely growing plump, till the pregnancy became obvious. Not that she owed her any explanation. But it felt odd, like an elephant in the room that they silently agreed not to speak of.
And now, out of nowhere, Brook was.
“Oh no, the baby’s been moving for months, but the kicks are much stronger now. Here, feel right here.”
Not knowing how to avoid it, Charlene set down her yogurt, hesitantly laid her hand flat on the side of Brook’s belly, and waited.
She felt nothing. Then suddenly—bump!—a little hand or foot socked her. It was an uncanny feeling, and she almost flinched. “Wow.” She meant it this time. “That’s amazing.”
Her hand lingered for a few more punches or kicks. She couldn’t help wondering if the baby was a little girl or boy. A little Brook or—
“You haven’t asked if Clay’s the father,” Brook said quietly. “I would have thought that would have been your first question when you realized I was pregnant. But you never asked.”
Charlene’s hand retreated. “I figured you’d tell me . . . if you wanted to.” A dreadful anticipation clutched her as she awaited Brook’s response, but she merely patted her belly and offered a tiny, ambiguous smile before assuring her, “Clay’s going to be a wonderful father.”
With a slight nod, Charlene dropped her spoon in the sink, tossed her yogurt, grabbed her purse, and left. She had the day off, but no plans. Missing Ben, she sat in her car and wondered where to go.
Her phone chimed. Since she’d given up on Ben calling, she took her time picking it up. When she saw it was him, she whipped the phone to her ear, heart hammering. “Ben.”
“I forgive you.”
She dropped her head and stared at her lap. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t know why, but I can’t stay mad at you.”
She held her breath.
“I miss you,” he added.
“I miss you, too.”
“We’re gonna make this work.”
Tension slid from her neck and shoulders. “We will. I’m so sorry and—”
“No, I don’t want any more apologies or explanations. Let’s forget it ever happened.”
She put a fingernail to her lips and almost nibbled. “So . . . I’m exculpated?”
Silence for two beats, then a short laugh. “Yeah, you’re exculpated. And happy birthday, by the way.”
Her lips quirked. “Thanks.”
“Got plans?”
She stared out at the emaciated trees lining the parking lot, at rusty leaves falling to the pavement. “No.”
“You do now.”
* * *
She’d been given a second chance she felt she didn’t deserve, and the day was almost perfect. Ben crammed it with things he thought she’d enjoy—a museum tour, a trip to an apple orchard, a fancy restaurant dinner—but between them all, Charlene checked her phone repeatedly and almost keyed Max’s number. They hadn’t talked since she’d hung up on him back in July.
As a twin, she couldn’t feel right on her birthday without Max being part of it. For as long as she could remember, it had always been a joint event. Surely, today he would call.
It wasn’t like Max to hold a grudge, but even if she did owe him an apology, she figured he also owed her one for harassing her about her engagement. She stared at her phone but refused to make the call. She pictured him doing the same. Like they were locked in some ridiculous silent standoff that just might last till they were old and gray.
At the restaurant, she slipped her phone back in her purse as a waitress set down a slice of cake bearing a flickering candle. To Charlene’s relief, the woman moved away without any “happy birthday” singing spectacle. This restaurant was too classy to do something like that. Thank goodness for Ben’s choice. She smiled at him. He knew her so well.
After the cake, he passed her a square package. She unwrapped the gift, knowing it was too large to be a ring box, which was what she had half suspected he might give her.
Inside sat a heart-shaped silver box with her initials engraved on the top. A jewelry box. She lifted it and opened it very, very slowly.
No ring nestled on the black velvet lining.
In fact, nothing at all lay inside. Mild surprise, but no disappointment, touched her.
“There’s a little winder thing on the bottom,” Ben pointed out. “It plays a song.”
Tilting the box, she cranked the petite golden knob. As the melody began tinkling out sweetly, she felt her eyes shine as she thanked him. This would be the perfect place to keep her mother’s pink pearl necklace—if she ever got it back.
Her ears prickled and a bad feeling swept over her. “What song is this?” Her fingers pressed tight to the cold metal. “Is it . . .”
Ben nodded, looking very pleased with himself. “That’s right. ‘Glory of Love.’ You remember that first time I finally convinced you to come over to my house and we ended up watching The Karate Kid together?”
She remembered. She’d enjoyed the movie, but not the theme song. It wasn’t his fault; he had no way of knowing. Really, it was a beautiful song. Wonderful. She simply had a tendency to lug senseless emotional baggage.
“This song makes me think of you,” he said.
Her heart constricted. Oh, how he would hate it if he knew this song made her think of Abner. And Clay. How it had been playing in the background during captivity . . .
She choked on her words. “That’s so thoughtful.” It is. I’m just messed up. She lowered her eyes, pretending to study the jewelry box’s lovely etched details.
She wouldn’t ever play the music again, that’s all. It was that simple.
She would be okay.
* * *
Later that evening, Ben and Charlene streamed a movie to the widescreen in the Jorgensens’ living room, but it wasn’t very entertaining. Halfway through, Ben dozed off and Charlene’s eyes strayed to the family computer in the corner of the room. She eased herself from the sofa and sat down at the keyboard, knowing Ben wouldn’t mind.
If nothing else, she’d get an update on Max’s life by checking his website. In a few clicks, she was there. A flashy headshot of Max appeared prominently at the top of the homepage. Below this was a wide-shot of him performing on stage. She clicked on “latest news,” then “show times.” He was slated to perform an all-new trick that promised to be his most daring and death-defying yet, to be unveiled in a February show.
She hovered the pointer over the option to “buy tickets now.” His shows often sold out fast. She checked the date and availability, working her tongue over her teeth. Then she pulled out her credit card and bought a ticket.
Happy Birthday to me.
Now she would have to go see him.
She was just about to close the window, when, on a sudden whim, she typed in an image search for “snake handled knife curse.” Countless irrelevant pictures popped up. One of them, though, looked like Abner’s knife. She clicked on it and was transported to a black page with a blood red heading that read, “Satanic Museum.”
She should have closed the page right there, at the ominous, sick feeling traveling from her fingers to her toes and whirling in the pit of her stomach. But she didn’t.
On the top of the screen, black candles burned beside an ugly horned goat head. Her eyes, however, were captured by the picture of the knife. The site referred to it as an “athame,” otherwise known as a ceremonial dagger.
She read the article (if it could it be called an article and not utter rubbish), the claim of the curse, and it was all as Horace had described.
Then she came across something he hadn’t expounded on:
Those who have been sliced by the black snake-handled athame, are marked by Satan as his own. The only escape from the damning curse is a sacrifice—some may say murder. Very specific conditions must be met:
One must obtain and use the very same athame with which they were cut with.
If one
who bears the scar of Satan’s athame is able to locate another soul, likewise scarred, he or she must use the knife and stab them in the heart while calling on Satan’s mercy with the words, “Deliver me, O Mighty Lord Satan from this, your almighty curse.”
Only then can one hope to appease the wrath of Satan.
Her hand froze on the keyboard, repulsed. Save yourself from hell by murdering someone? Twisted logic from the Father of Lies.
Her eyes returned to the picture of the knife. At the bottom of the web page, the site noted that the Satanic Museum was working on obtaining the authentic snake-handled athame. Perhaps, then, Horace worked for—or even owned—this museum. She could certainly picture him in such an appalling line of work.
Locating the “about” tab, she clicked it. Skimming the screen, she learned that the museum was located in a neighboring state—and that the museum had been growing its collection for thirty years under dedicated curator Horace Cain.
As her mouth grimaced, a ghastly thought emerged like a snake from a hole. What if Horace wanted the knife for more than just museum display? What if . . . what if he believed he was one of the cursed, and he was looking to break the curse? She strained her memory to see if she could recall noticing any scar-like mark on Horace, but she couldn’t.
Still, if he seriously believed this nonsense and wanted to free himself from the curse, he might think of her, or Clay, as a victim to sacrifice.
She swallowed, then swallowed again, telling herself her theory was farfetched.
But that didn’t make her thoughts any less disturbing.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“What are you looking at?”
Charlene jumped guiltily, bumping her knees against the desk and quickly clicking the satanic window closed. Engrossed as she’d been, she hadn’t heard anyone approach. Now she turned to see Lucy and her accusatory eyes over her shoulder.
The girl crossed her arms. “If I tell my mom you were looking at evil stuff on our computer, she’ll freak. Like, big time. Especially if she knows you let me see it.” She leaned in closer, craning her neck as if she could still glimpse something evil on the standard home screen. “What was that, like devils and spells and stuff ?”
After the Thaw Page 28